“No, Dad. It’s not yours anymore, and it’s not Chance’s.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he folded the statement and held it out toward Chance.
“Then there’s nothing left to borrow against, son.”
Chance didn’t take the papers.
I picked up the pen from beside Mom’s printed deed and put it in my pocket.
It was a nice pen.
I figured I’d earned it.
“Keep the dollar, Chance,” I said. “You’re going to need another fifty-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine.”
I thanked Mom for inviting me over and walked out.
Nobody followed.
Labor Day came and went.
Chance didn’t pay Brandy.
On Tuesday, her attorney began enforcement proceedings over the unpaid settlement.
By the time the additional legal expenses were calculated, Chance owed roughly another nine thousand dollars.
His lawyer explained that he could sell the house or face a long collection process, potentially including wage garnishment.
Chance listed the split-level in September.
It sold the week before Thanksgiving.
Brandy received her settlement money and the agreed legal expenses from the proceeds.
Chance moved into a duplex across from the bowling alley.
The enormous television wouldn’t fit in his new living room, so he sold that too.
Dad never paid another one of Chance’s bills.
When Mom brought up helping him, Dad gave the same answer.
“There’s nothing left to borrow against.”
Aunt Wanita told me about that conversation.
She said Mom was furious.
I wasn’t surprised.
For the first time, Dad was saying no to something Chance wanted, and he meant it.
Brandy eventually told her side of the divorce story at the café.
She didn’t stand on a table or make a scene.
She simply sat with some women who’d spent the summer listening to Mom and explained what the settlement actually said.
She told them Chance had promised to pay her using a gas station he didn’t own.
In Broken Bow, that was enough.
The story traveled through town faster than anything Mom could have said across the deli counter.
Mom stopped talking publicly about how I’d stolen the station.
She never took back what she’d said.
She just stopped repeating it.
The first Monday in October, Mr. Ruby’s Buick finally pulled into pump one.
I saw him through the window and went outside.
He moved slowly with his cane.
Inside, he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Heard about your brother,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
He took a sip.
His face twisted.
“Still can’t make decent coffee, huh?”
“Working on it.”
He put a dollar on the counter.
“Your dad always gave me a free cup on my birthday.”
“When’s your birthday, Mr. Ruby?”
“March.”
I smiled.
“Then I’ll see you in March.”
He’s been back every Monday since.
Later that month, Brandy came into the station again.
She stood in front of the help-wanted sign for a long time.
“Is that still true?” she asked.
“Are you looking for work?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you handle a register?”
She looked at me.
“I’ve worked in a school cafeteria for eleven years. I’ve served four hundred kids lunch in twenty-two minutes.”
I smiled.
“Fair point.”
I hired her that afternoon.
She turned out to be the best cashier I’d ever had.
She remembered customers’ names after meeting them twice, kept the bathrooms cleaner than I did, and didn’t hesitate to tell me when I ordered too many snacks nobody wanted.
She also complained about the coffee almost every morning.
One afternoon in November, Chance stopped in for a fountain drink and a bag of chips.
He hadn’t been to the station in months.
He walked up to the counter, looked at Brandy standing behind the register, and froze.
She smiled.
“That’ll be four dollars and eighty cents.”
Chance reached for his wallet.
Brandy added, “Unless you’d rather put it on Christmas 2024.”
He paid cash.
He hasn’t been back since.
He buys his gasoline at the chain station near the bypass now.
I don’t mind.
Their coffee is actually worse than mine.
I checked.
This spring, I finally replaced the old sign outside.
It wasn’t an easy decision.
Dad had painted the original himself in 1991, and for more than thirty years, the red letters spelling Doyle’s Service had stood above the pumps.
But the business wasn’t Doyle’s anymore.
It was mine.
I hired a sign company from Grand Island.
They took the old sign down with a bucket truck and installed a new one in the same place.
Plain black letters.
Ian’s.
Nothing fancy.
Just my name.
I had the crew put Dad’s old sign in the shed behind the repair bays.
I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.
About a week later, Dad pulled into the station.
He didn’t buy gasoline.
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