A literary argument free-response question with model answers. Write your own response first, then reveal the model to see exactly how each part earns its point.
I want to be clear that I never asked Margit to sign anything. I simply explained, the way anyone in my position would have, that the orchard had been losing money for three years running, and that her father's debts — debts I had quietly carried since his funeral, debts no one else in this town would touch — had to be settled one way or another. I laid the papers on the table. I did not push them toward her. That distinction matters, and I will keep insisting on it for as long as I live, because a man who pushes is a thief, and I have never been a thief.
She signed quickly. I remember being almost offended by how quickly — as though she'd already decided before I finished my sentence, as though my carefully chosen words, the ones I'd rehearsed on the drive over, hadn't mattered at all. I told myself this meant she understood the arithmetic. I did not let myself wonder, not then, what else might make a young woman sign away her father's land in under a minute: grief, maybe, or exhaustion, or the particular fatigue of being twenty-six and suddenly responsible for a dead man's mistakes.
It is true that I have since acquired four other orchards in this valley under similar terms. I do not see why this fact should color anyone's understanding of that Tuesday afternoon specifically. Each transaction stood on its own. Each family had its own debts, its own father, its own quick signature. I have never once forged a number or hidden a clause in language designed to confuse. Ask anyone who has read my contracts: every word is plain. If people sign quickly, that is not evidence of pressure. It is evidence, I have come to believe, of relief — the relief of finally setting a burden down, even into hands like mine.