Chapter 10: The Corner on Dorothy Lane

The loan officer with the plant on her desk had moved to a bigger office.

The plant had moved with her.

"Seventeen months of sales," she said, tapping our folder. "Every receipt. Every delivery log. A rescue contract that renews itself."

"We kept everything," I said.

"I can see that." She smiled. "I told you I'd approve you when you came back."

"You did."

"How much do you need?"

"One hundred and eighty thousand," Ben said.

He said it slowly, so she could hear every zero.

She didn't blink.

"For what?"

"A building."

I put a photo on her desk.

It was a brick building on Dorothy Lane with a For Sale sign in the window.

Faded green letters over the door still said *Auto Parts*.

The owner was seventy-four and wanted to retire.

He had turned down three offers from developers, because he said he wouldn't sell to anyone who would tear it down.

Ben and I had walked in on a Friday, and bought a bag of wiper blades we didn't need.

Then we had stayed for two hours listening to him talk about his late wife.

At the end, he said, "You two seem like you'd keep the lights on."

"We would," I said.

"Then I'll sell to you for what the bank says it's worth, and not a dollar more."

The loan officer looked at the photo for a long minute.

Then she picked up her pen.

"I'll need the paperwork by Thursday," she said.

"Then we'll see if the bank agrees with the old man," I said.

The bank did.

Twenty-six days after my father tripled our rent, the keys to the building on Dorothy Lane were in my hand.

I stood in the empty garage bay, where the old man's wrenches had left shadows on the wall.

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