For a moment, I considered letting the toolbox sit in the office.
Then I looked at Dad’s initials.
And decided to take it to him myself.
That evening, I loaded it into my truck and drove to my parents’ house.
Dad was in the garage.
The overhead door was open.
A baseball game played softly on the radio.
He sat in a lawn chair beside his workbench.
Mom’s car wasn’t there.
I rolled the toolbox inside.
Dad looked up.
For a moment, he seemed surprised.
Then his eyes moved toward the red metal cabinet.
“I thought the bank took that.”
I shook my head.
“It was your personal toolbox. It wasn’t part of the station sale.”
He stood slowly.
Then opened the top drawer.
Every wrench was still where he’d left it.
Near the back sat an old pair of reading glasses in a scratched case.
Dad picked them up.
For a moment, he smiled faintly.
“Been looking for those.”
I nodded.
“They were in the top drawer.”
He slipped them into his shirt pocket.
Then looked toward me.
“Chance says you’re having trouble running the place.”
I took a breath.
“Sales have improved since reopening. We’re doing all right.”
Dad nodded.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked something quietly.
“Coffee still bad?”
I smiled.
“Worse than ever.”
He almost laughed.
Then the baseball game returned from a commercial break.
Dad turned toward the radio.
I knew the conversation was finished.
I left him with his toolbox.
For the first time since the foreclosure, I felt I’d returned something to my father that belonged to him.
Not the station.
Not his old authority.
Just a little piece of the life he’d built before everything became complicated.
Then Mom called.
No greeting.
No question about how I was doing.
She went straight to the point.
“Ian, here’s what needs to happen.”
I was sitting in the office reviewing a fuel delivery schedule.
I leaned back.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re going to sign the station over to Chance.”
For a moment, I stared toward the doorway.
Then I asked.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it was promised to him.”
I took a breath.
“Mom, I owe the bank more than two hundred thousand dollars on this business.”
She sighed.
“Chance will take over the payments.”
“With what income?”
“He has a job.”
I looked toward the financial statements.
“Mom, the payment is about sixteen hundred forty dollars a month before operating expenses, taxes, and maintenance. He’d have to qualify for financing and understand the business.”
She became irritated.
“You always make everything about money.”
I stared.
“It’s a gas station, Mom. Money is part of keeping it open.”
She didn’t laugh.
Instead, she told me I’d embarrassed Dad.
That I was jealous of Chance.
That I should be grateful our family still wanted to work things out.
I listened.
Then said one word.
“No.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, she whispered.
“You’re going to regret this.”
I looked toward the old family photograph beside my desk.
Dad standing under the newly painted station sign.
Chance beside him.
Me at the edge of the picture, holding a broom.
I took a breath.
“I’m not signing away the business.”
Mom ended the call.
I sat quietly afterward.
For the first time, I wondered why everyone suddenly seemed so desperate.
The station had been mine for weeks.
Chance had complained.
Mom had told stories around town.
But now the pressure felt urgent.
As though somebody was watching a deadline approach.
Two evenings later, Brandy returned.
The sun was going down.
I had just finished checking the day’s receipts when her red Chevrolet pulled into the lot.
She entered carrying the same folder.
This time, she opened it.
“My attorney said I can show you my copies.”
I nodded.
“All right.”
She placed the first document on the counter.
It was the property settlement from her divorce.
Chance had kept their house.
In exchange, he’d agreed to pay Brandy sixty thousand dollars for her share of the equity.
The payment was due by September first.
I read it carefully.
Then looked toward her.
“That’s a substantial amount.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“Why did you agree to wait?”
She turned another page.
“Because of this.”
It was Chance’s financial disclosure.
Most of it was typed.
Income.
Debts.
Assets.
Payment obligations.
Then, in a section explaining how he intended to satisfy the settlement, there was a handwritten statement.
I recognized Chance’s handwriting immediately.
Large capital letters.
Uneven spacing.
The same lettering he’d used on birthday cards when we were children.
The statement said he expected to receive ownership of Doyle’s Service from our father by Christmas of the previous year and intended to obtain financing against the business to satisfy the divorce obligation.
I stared.
Then read it again.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Brandy watched me.
“He told me your dad had agreed.”
I looked up.
“He hadn’t.”
She frowned.
“Your father said the station would be Chance’s someday.”
I nodded.
“Someday. When Dad was finished with it. That wasn’t a transfer.”
Brandy looked down at the statement.
For a moment, her expression changed.
Then she pointed toward the attorney’s name at the bottom.
“This was prepared by Chance’s second lawyer.”
I knew the name.
The attorney from Kearney.
The one whose twenty-four-thousand-dollar bill Dad had paid from the station’s credit line.
I stared at the page.
Then slowly understood the circle.
Dad had borrowed against the station to pay the attorney who helped Chance negotiate a settlement based on an expectation that he’d eventually receive that same station.
The money used to finance his legal representation contributed to the debt that led to the foreclosure.
And the property Chance had promised to use for repayment had never belonged to him.
I looked toward Brandy.
“Do you know what Dad borrowed to pay that lawyer?”
She shook her head.
I told her.
Twenty-four thousand dollars.
From the station.
Her face became very still.
For a long moment, she looked toward the pumps.