The farm was in Kentucky. It had been in Wayne's family for a long time. Now it was in the bank's hands, or it would be next month. The notice had come in the mail, typed on official paper with the bank's logo at the top. Wayne had read it three times. Then he put it in a drawer and went back to work.

Wayne was fifty-four. He had worked this land for most of his life. His hands were rough and his knuckles were swollen from forty years of pulling fence posts and turning soil. His son was dead—Vietnam, they told him. His wife had left three years ago and never came back. The farm was the only thing left that was his.

Ricky was twenty-eight. He had come to the farm less than a year ago, looking for work in a county where there was not much of it. Ricky was quiet but he could work. Wayne appreciated that. Sometimes he looked at Ricky and saw his son at that age, before the army took him.

They were taking down fence posts on a Tuesday. The wood was old and rotting. Wayne pulled each one out of the ground, shook the dirt off, and stacked them against the barn. Ricky was stripping copper wire from old electrical cables he had pulled from the house when they tore out the wiring. The copper would go to Dale's scrap yard. It was something, even if it was not enough.

The bank had said next month. That meant now. Everything that could be salvaged needed to be salvaged now.

Dale's pickup came down the dirt road at about two in the afternoon. It kicked up a cloud of dust that settled on the fence posts and the copper wire and the sweat on Wayne's neck. Dale was fifty, a scrap yard owner in town, and he had known Wayne since they were boys. He was胖 and oily, and he always talked the way a man talks when he is calculating the value of everything around him.

He pulled up beside the barn and killed the engine. He got out carrying a stack of bills in his hand. He walked over to Wayne and held them out.

"I'll take the copper, the iron, everything," Dale said. "You just need to tear it down."

Ricky was standing by the barn, listening. He set down the copper wire he was holding. "Those things are collateral," he said. "They're pledged to the bank."

Wayne looked at Dale. Dale looked at Wayne. The bills in Dale's hand were real. They were a lot of money. More than Wayne had seen in months.

"Shut up," Wayne said to Ricky.

Wayne started pulling fence posts. He pulled one out of the ground. Then another. The wood was heavy and splintered. He stacked them by the truck.

Ricky went into the house. He came back with Wayne's shotgun. He held it at his side and walked over to where Dale was standing.

Dale saw the gun and stopped smiling.

Ricky aimed at the ground between Dale's boots and pulled the trigger.

The shot was loud. Dirt flew up around Dale's feet. Dale stepped back, his eyes wide. He looked at Ricky, then at Wayne. Wayne was still holding a fence post. He had not moved.

Dale got back in his truck. He drove away. The pickup left two tire tracks in the dirt road. The dust settled slowly.

Ricky put the shotgun back in the house. He came back and stood next to Wayne. Wayne set down the fence post. They stood there for a while, looking at the tracks the truck had made.

The next day, the county sheriff came by. He was a man Wayne had known for years. He asked if Wayne had heard any gunshots the night before.

"Coyote," Wayne said.

The sheriff nodded. He did not ask any more questions. He got in his car and drove away.

Ricky was sitting on the porch when Wayne came out. He was holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold. Wayne sat down beside him. They did not speak.

"Sheriff, that's not right," Ricky said finally.

"I know."

"But there's nothing we can do."

"No."

Ricky set down the coffee cup. Wayne looked out at the farm. The fields were overgrown. The fence was coming down. The barn had a hole in the roof. The bank would take it next month. There was nothing to do.

Ricky stood up and went inside. Wayne stayed on the porch. The wind came off the fields. It was warm and carried the smell of dirt and something that might have been weeds or might have been nothing at all.

Wayne dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his boot. He sat there until the sun went down. Then he stood up, went inside, and closed the door behind him.

The farm was quiet. Nothing moved. The fence posts lay in a pile by the barn. The copper wire was in a bag in the corner of the house. The bank would come next month. They always did.

Wayne sat at the kitchen table. He did not turn on the light. The dark was the same as it had always been. He sat there for a long time. Then he stood up, went to bed, and did not sleep.