The ceremony was short. Ollie, his eyes fixed on the coffins, struggled to listen to the minister’s words. After the service, he individually thanked those in attendance, their endless handshakes, hugs, and words of condolences unable to lift his spirits. He heard whispers about the man, now sober in the county jail, awaiting sentencing for running down his parents. But the justice of a long prison term would not bring them back.

By Thursday, the bank had requested a meeting. Ollie got up early and drove his parents’ truck to Portland. He rolled down the windows, for fear that the slightest scent of his father’s aftershave or his mother’s perfume would make him cry again. The last thing he needed was to go in all red-eyed to meet with the banker.

A receptionist took him to the banker’s office. A plump man with a bulbous nose and oiled hair sat behind a large desk, clear of any papers, except for an engraved business-card holder with the words Sal Bronson, President. The man did not bother to get up; instead, he gestured for Ollie to take a seat.

“Ollie,” Mr. Bronson said. “This is Mr. Hood, the attorney who will help us with finalizing matters between the bank and the estate of your parents.”

Ollie looked at the man with a pencil-thin mustache sitting in a chair next to him. The man tipped his hat without making eye contact and flipped open the briefcase sitting on his lap.

“Ollie, are you aware of the amount of your parents’ debt?” the banker asked.

“Well, not exactly.” Ollie shifted in his seat. “I’m sure they had debt. After all, we’re farmers.”

“It’s my understanding your parents had no life insurance, correct?”

Ollie nodded.

Mr. Hood handed Ollie some papers.

The banker leaned back in his chair. “That’s a list of the outstanding debt on the farm, house, equipment, and crop-dusting business. Your parents have been running behind on payments. Bottom line, the place is buried in debt, and we’re foreclosing.”

Ollie swallowed. “What about the harvest of the potato crop?”

The banker shook his head. “Not enough to make a dent.”

“But my parents, even if they were running a little behind, always made good on their payments.”

The banker raised his hand. “We’ve sent out a team this morning to secure the farm equipment. Mr. Hood will be handling the foreclosure proceedings.”

“There must be something that can be done,” Ollie said.

The banker shook his head. “It’s too bad your father had been giving away crop-dusting services, not to mention using precious farmland for a landing strip.” He ran his fingers, thick as sausages, through his slicked hair. “I’m afraid your father wasn’t much of a businessman.”