Vern Williams stood looking at the old house on the hill. Wind cut through him like a knife, but somehow it didn’t matter. He had the house. All that was left was to sign the paperwork. Charlie Dugan had owned the house and land around it for 30 years. At one time, it had been Vern’s parent’s house. He’d been born there on the kitchen table like his father and his grandfather. His father had died when Vern was 14. They’d had to sell the house and the farm.

            On that day, he vowed that he would buy it back someday. That day was now.

            A large white Cadillac came down the road, dust trailing behind it. An even larger man stepped out after bringing the car to a halt.

            The man, Charlie Dugan, stuck out his hand, “Vern.”

            Vern shook Dugan’s hand and looked very carefully at him. He could tell that something wasn’t right. Dugan looked uncomfortable. He had never fully trusted Dugan. Money was his god.

            Dugan inhaled on his cigar and stood saying nothing.

            Vern waited. He was shelling out a lot of money out for this place and he wanted to get the preliminaries over. “You got the papers?”

            “Well, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about. I got another offer. You know, from the Obits. They really want the land.”

            “Charlie, I was born in that house. I been saving for years to get this place back,” he said waving his hand toward the house.

            “I know-” Dugan said rubbing his hand behind his neck.

            “My whole life has centered on getting this house back! My great-grandfather built it; farmed the land with both his hands,” Vern hollered. He was getting real pissed off very fast.