“You don't drive seventy thousand pounds over it.”
Fair.
Luke looked toward the dark load still clinging inside the dump bed.
“Where does this come from inside the plant?”
The driver’s smile weakened.
“Plant.”
“Yeah.”
“What part?”
“No idea.”
“You load it?”
“Nope.”
Luke waited.
The man flicked ash into the snow.
“You suddenly writing a report?”
“School.”
“School?”
“Ag program.”
The driver nodded slowly.
“Good.”
Then he looked toward the farmhouse.
“Earl know you're asking?”
Luke noticed the shift.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Does it matter?”
The driver dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot.
“Ask your grandfather.”
He climbed into the cab.
Luke stood there.
That was two people now.
Both answering questions with other questions.
By eight-thirty, five trucks had emptied.
More than one hundred tons.
The black pile had grown several feet.
A white Ashford pickup arrived behind them.
Luke knew the man who stepped out.
Mason Trent.
Ashford’s waste-material coordinator.
Mid-forties.
Thick through the middle.
Gray beginning at the sides of his hair.
He wore black work boots that had somehow never once appeared muddy despite years of visiting farms and industrial yards.
Mason always greeted Earl loudly.
Called him “old timer.”
Brought Christmas hams.
Once gave Luke an Ashford baseball cap when he was twelve.
Luke had liked him then.
Today Mason approached with a clipboard.
“Harper!”
Earl emerged from the machine shed.
“You’re early.”
Mason smiled.
“Keeping you young.”
“At this hour you’re trying to kill me.”
They shook hands.
Luke watched from near the feeder wagon.
Mason looked toward him.
“There’s the college man.”
Luke walked over.
“Morning.”
“Heard you’re learning how to tell farmers everything they’ve done wrong.”
Earl smirked.
Luke did not.
“Mostly soil management.”
“Same thing.”
Mason handed Earl a delivery sheet.
“Six loads today.”
“Thought five.”
“One more coming.”
Earl frowned.
“Where are you putting it?”
“North end.”
“No.”
Mason glanced up.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re already farther north than we agreed.”
Mason looked toward the piles.
“Maybe fifteen feet.”
“Thirty.”
“Earl.”
“South end has room.”
“South end’s soft.”
“That’s your driver’s problem.”
Mason smiled as though indulging a child.
“Fine.”
He marked the clipboard.
Luke asked:
“What exactly is in this batch?”
Mason looked toward him.
“Slag.”
“Composition.”
“Same as always.”
“What does that mean?”
Mason chuckled.
“You planning to eat it?”
“No.”
“Then don't worry.”
Luke said nothing.
Mason turned back to Earl.
Luke continued:
“Is it basic oxygen furnace slag?”
Mason’s eyes moved toward him.
“No.”
“Electric arc?”
“Plant runs several processes.”
“Stainless alloy?”
Mason’s smile disappeared.
“You actually are learning things.”
Luke waited.
“What’s the green residue?”
Mason looked toward the pile.
“Oxides.”
“Which?”