Ezra was twenty-one when his father died.
It was strange how quickly a person's entire life could be reduced to a folder.
A few signatures.
A few official stamps.
A bank account with more numbers than Ezra had ever seen attached to his own name.
He sat quietly across from the bank manager, staring at the papers spread between them while the man explained what Ezra had already been told twice that morning.
"As the sole beneficiary of your father's estate, the funds can be released once you've signed here."
Ezra looked down at the indicated line.
"All of it?"
"Everything remaining after the estate's obligations have been settled."
He nodded.
"And the land?"
"The land is held separately."
Ezra looked up.
"By the company?"
"Yes."
"Which I now control."
The man smiled politely.
"That's correct."
Ezra leaned back.
He was twenty-one years old.
His father was dead.
And somehow, he was now the owner of more than he knew what to do with.
He picked up the pen.
