“Some.”
“Your dad and I went over them.”
“What’s the cause?”
“Multiple factors.”
“Which?”
“Low biological activity.”
“Why?”
“Long-term production.”
“What else?”
“Micronutrient imbalance.”
“Which one?”
“Zinc especially.”
“We applied zinc.”
“Yes.”
“For years.”
“Trees can still show deficiency.”
“Why?”
Wade looked toward her.
“Uptake.”
“Why is uptake poor?”
“Could be pH.”
“It isn't.”
“Root stress.”
“What caused root stress?”
“Compaction.”
“The weakest area isn't the most compacted.”
Wade smiled.
“You’ve been studying.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Clara waited.
He closed the papers.
“Your dad understood farming is rarely one answer.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then?”
“I want to know why the same patches decline regardless of what we apply.”
Wade looked toward Field Three.
“It can take years to rebuild depleted soil.”
“Then why do you keep recommending another product every year?”
The smile disappeared.
“Because doing nothing is not a plan.”
“I didn't say nothing.”
“What are you planning?”
Clara told him.
Pigs.
Wade stared.
Then laughed.
Not maliciously.
Genuinely.
“Pigs.”
“Yes.”
“In a pecan orchard.”
“Yes.”
“Clara.”
“What?”
“You're frustrated.”
“That doesn't make me wrong.”
“No.”
He softened.
“It makes experimentation tempting.”
“Dad experimented.”
“With managed treatments.”
“Some of these products were experiments when somebody first used them.”
Wade sighed.
“You're comparing commercially proven agricultural chemistry with pigs.”
“I’m comparing costs.”
That got him.
Clara showed numbers.
Wade read.
His brow tightened.
“Your father's treatment plan was expensive because the orchard had serious problems.”
“And the problems got worse.”
“You cannot blame treatment for a disease process.”
“I didn't.”
“You're implying it.”
“No.”
Clara took back the paper.
“I am saying I don't want another invoice until I understand what I’m buying.”
Wade nodded slowly.
“Fair.”
Then:
“You're making a mistake cutting too much.”
“Maybe.”
He smiled.
“Daniel hated that word.”
“So do I.”
Wade returned to his truck.
Before leaving, he called:
“Be careful with rooting depth.”
“I know.”
“Pigs can damage feeder roots.”
“I know.”
“Keep them moving.”
“I know.”
He laughed.
“Your father lives.”
Then drove away.
Clara stood in dust behind his truck.
Something in the conversation felt wrong.
Not proof.
Feeling.
She hated feeling.
Feelings made bad evidence.
So she measured.
The pigs arrived two weeks later.