And envelopes.
One contained cash.
Not a fortune.
Two thousand four hundred dollars.
To me, it looked like millions.
I began crying.
Hard.
Not quiet tears.
Eleven years of grief came out inside that cave.
I cried for my grandfather.
For Lily.
For the old house.
For myself.
For every night in prison when I thought nobody remembered me.
The dog came closer.
It rested its head near my knee.
I touched its ears.
“Looks like we both found something.”
I spent the rest of the day reading.
The documents showed that the ridge had belonged to my grandfather.
But I did not know whether the papers were still valid.
Maybe the land had been sold.
Maybe taxes had gone unpaid.
Maybe my mother had taken it.
I needed facts.
The next morning, I returned to town.
The dog followed.
I called him Patch because of his white paw.
At the county records office, I expected trouble.
