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My shoulder objected, but sitting felt worse.

Wyatt turned slightly, the cord pulling taut. “My brothers are here.”

Then he looked at us.

“He’d like to speak to all three.”

Boone got up and came to the counter. Wyatt hit the speaker button on the old phone base, then set the receiver down beside it.

Static breathed into the kitchen.

“Mr. Calloway?” Dennis Kroll said.

“All three,” Wyatt answered.

“Good. Thank you.”

His voice had the polished quiet of a man accustomed to delivering consequences from a carpeted office. Not cold. Cold would’ve been easier. He sounded decent.

Decent men still foreclosed.

“I heard the production sale went well,” he said.

“It did,” Wyatt replied.

“Your father always put together a strong set.”

There it was. Your father. Past tense, delivered gently, three weeks into a conversation about taking his ranch.

Boone’s jaw tightened.

I put my right hand on the counter and watched a fly worry the inside of the window above the sink.

Dennis cleared his throat. “I was sorry to hear of his passing,” he said. “I sent a note.”

“We received it.”

“I wish we were speaking under different circumstances.”

“But we’re not,” Wyatt said.

The words weren’t rude. Wyatt could tell a man to dig his own grave and make it sound like a clarification of scope.

Dennis paused.

“No,” he said. “We’re not.”

Paper moved on his end of the line.

“I’ve reviewed the file with our credit committee. Meridian is prepared to offer a twelve-month accommodation rather than pursue the remedies presently available to the institution.”

My fingers tightened against the counter.

Accommodation.

Bank language for letting us remain in our own house while the clock ran.

Wyatt’s voice stayed level. “State the terms.”