Chapter 1

In August 1979, I stood under the old crooked oak at the crossroads, clutching that admission letter for what felt like an entire afternoon.

I must have read those words a hundred times: Stillwater Institute of Technology, Department of Mechanical Engineering.

Every word made sense, yet strung together, they felt like a dream.

The only kid in the whole township to get into college, and it had to be me.

But I couldn't celebrate.

As the sun began to set, I tucked the admission letter into my pocket and headed home.

The corn on both sides of the dirt road towered over me, the leaves slashing at my arms, but I didn't feel a thing.

My mind kept circling back to the same questions: How would I pay for tuition? How would I get to Stillwater? What would I eat and drink once I got there?

My dad sat on the stoop, smoking his corncob pipe. When he saw me coming back, he tapped the bowl against the sole of his boot. "So?"

I handed him the admission letter. He couldn't read, so he turned it over and over in his hands for ages before passing it to my mom.

My mom couldn't read either, but she held the letter tight, her fingers trembling, and her eyes welled up with tears.

"Did you get in?" Her voice quivered.

I nodded.

My mom burst into tears, clutching the letter like it was her own child.

Dad didn't say a word, but I saw him turn away, his shoulders shaking.

Once the tears dried up, the worry set in.

My dad pulled out every cent we had and spread it across the bed. Crumpled ones and fives, nickels and dimes, pennies and quarters. It all added up to less than twenty bucks. Not enough for a bus ticket, let alone tuition.

"I'll go borrow some." My dad got to his feet.

I knew exactly where he was headed: Uncle Henry's place.

Uncle Henry was my dad's younger brother, but his wife, Aunt Eunice, man, she was a piece of work.

Aunt Eunice was from the next town over. A pretty woman, but her heart was smaller than a pinhole. Back when they divided the family property, she'd fought with my mom for three days straight over a skillet and two blankets.

After things started looking up for Uncle Henry's family, Aunt Eunice would go around telling everyone, "My husband's got what it takes. Not like some folks. They're so broke they can't rub two nickels together, but still acting all high and mighty."

Dad went to their place, but came back empty-handed.

"Eunice said all their money's tied up in CDs. Can't touch it." Dad squatted on the stoop, head down, smoking his corncob pipe.

I knew that was an excuse. Uncle Henry's family had just sold a pig. That sale had pulled in at least a hundred and fifty bucks.

My mom wiped her tears. "Maybe we don't send William. He can farm here at home and make do."

"Bullshit," my dad snapped, which was rare for him. "My son got in. I'll break my back and sell the shirt off my back before I let this chance slip away."

Just then, the gate creaked open. Uncle Henry stood in the doorway.

He wore a faded blue work shirt, washed nearly white, with a bandana draped over his shoulder. His face was dark and ruddy from the sun. He had a chicken under his arm, still flapping.

"Peter," Uncle Henry called, setting the chicken down. "Let William have something good to eat."

My dad didn't say anything; he motioned for Uncle Henry to come inside and have a seat.

Uncle Henry didn't budge. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in wax paper, folded layer over layer.

Inside was a stack of cash. Tens, fives, ones, pressed flat and neat.

"One-eighty," Uncle Henry said, holding it out. "Sold the crop. Pooled every cent."

I froze.

180 dollars. Back then, a hired hand working the fields year-round might earn 150 bucks for the whole season. Uncle Henry's family only had a small plot. Selling their entire harvest might not even bring in that much.

"Henry, you..." My dad's voice cracked.

"Peter, the boy got in. That's pride for our whole family." Uncle Henry pushed the money into my hands. "Take it. Study hard. Bring honor to the family name."

I looked at his hands—rough as oak bark, knuckles split and cracked, some still oozing blood. The hands of a man who'd spent his life in the dirt.

"Uncle Henry, you sold the whole harvest. Does Aunt Eunice know about this?" I asked.

Uncle Henry didn't say a word.

Just then, a shrill voice rang out from beyond the gate. "Henry, have you lost your mind? You cleaned out our grain bin for some outsider? What, you want our girl to starve?"

Aunt Eunice stormed in, hands on her hips, her face flushed, and her neck veins popping with rage.

"That's our grain. Our money. Who gave you the right to give it away?" Aunt Eunice jabbed her finger in Uncle Henry's face. "I've been married to you for eight years, scrimping and saving every penny.

"You think that's easy? And now you throw it all away like it ain't nothing."

"He's my nephew," Uncle Henry said, his voice low but steady.

"Nephew? So your nephew matters more than your own daughter?" Aunt Eunice shot back with a sneer. "Amy has to count every egg in the basket, and you up and empty out the whole grain bin.

"Now there ain't even money left for her school supplies. Do you even care?"

Uncle Henry went silent.

I clutched that stack of cash, my palms drenched in sweat.