The process server found me in a metal box in the middle of Wyoming, where the wind never stops howling and the dust finds every crack in existence. It was six-thirty on a Tuesday evening in November, the kind of night where the sun drops behind the horizon at four-thirty and takes all the warmth with it, leaving nothing but darkness and cold that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you’re wearing. I was still in my flame-resistant coveralls when he knocked—two sharp raps that made the whole trailer wall rattle.

The diesel heater in the corner coughed and droned, fighting a losing battle against the Wyoming cold. I’d been on the rig for twelve hours straight, pulling spools of pipe with hands so raw the skin had cracked along my knuckles, and I smelled like 7018 welding rod, stale Red Bull, and the particular combination of sweat and steel that defined my life. “Ethan Hayes?” the man called through the thin metal door.

I opened it expecting a vendor, maybe a safety inspector, possibly even a coworker who’d locked himself out of his own trailer. What I got instead was a stranger in a Carhartt jacket holding a manila envelope like it contained something radioactive. “Got some paperwork for you,” he said, breath visible in the freezing air.

Mine came out in clouds. His didn’t, like he was some kind of demon from a warmer climate. “You’ve been served.”

I took the envelope, signed where he pointed with fingers that could barely hold the pen, and shut the door with my boot.

The fluorescent light overhead flickered like it was dying in slow motion, casting shadows that made the cramped space feel even smaller. I sat down at the little Formica table that served as my desk, dining room, and life planning center, tore open the envelope with a calloused thumb, and pulled out a stack of stapled legal papers. The caption at the top made me blink twice, certain I was reading it wrong:

DISTRICT COURT, ARAPAHOE COUNTY, COLORADO ROBERT AND DIANE HAYES, PLAINTIFFS, v.

ETHAN HAYES, DEFENDANT. I had to read it three times before my brain accepted what my eyes were seeing. My own parents—Robert and Diane Hayes—had filed a lawsuit against me.

Not for some family dispute over property or inheritance, not because I’d damaged something or failed to repay a loan. They were suing me for ownership of my truck. The truck I’d bought myself.