Then August came.
And with it, the first real trouble.
A storm crossed Whitfield County from the northwest.
Wind gusts over sixty miles an hour.
The Farm Girl stood on the porch watching trees bend.
Her mother said, “Come inside.”
“I am inside.”
“You are standing in the doorway.”
“That counts.”
Lightning flashed.
Rain finally arrived.
Hard.
Sideways.
For thirty minutes, the storm gave the county what everyone had prayed for all summer and threatened to destroy whatever remained standing.
At dawn, the Farm Girl drove to the sunflower field.
Her stomach tightened.
Several rows had lodged.
Stalks leaned.
Some heads bent badly.
A section near the northern edge looked flattened.
The Old Farmer arrived before she finished inspecting.
He climbed from his truck.
Whistled.
“Wind got you.”
“Yes.”
“I warned you.”
The Farm Girl said nothing.
He walked into the field.
She followed.
He lifted one stalk.
“Stem cracked.”
Another.
“Bent.”
He nodded toward the damaged section.
“You could lose ten percent.”
“Maybe.”
“More if disease enters.”
“Maybe.”
He looked toward her.
“You know what your problem is?”
She almost laughed.
“Which one?”
“You think maybe is a strategy.”
“No.”
“What then?”
“It’s an honest answer before I count.”
He stared.
She moved past him.
The Old Farmer followed.
“You should cut losses.”
“How?”
“Talk to the cooperative. See if they’ll release contract acreage. Plant cover after harvest.”
“It’s August.”
“I know what month it is.”
“You’re telling me to abandon before yield is known.”
“I’m telling you not to chase a mistake because you’re proud.”
The Farm Girl turned.
“My father wrote about you.”
The words came out before she decided to say them.
The Old Farmer stopped.
“What?”
“Sunflowers.”
His face changed.
A fraction.
Enough.
She continued.
“He wrote that somebody west of us used his row-spacing test.”
The Old Farmer looked toward the field.
“He wrote lots of things.”
“So it was you.”
Silence.
The Farm Girl felt something settle into place.
“You grew sunflowers before the soybean record.”
The Old Farmer’s jaw tightened.
“What does that matter?”
“I’m asking.”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad help?”
The Old Farmer turned toward her.
“He talked.”
“Did he help?”
“We helped each other.”
That was not the same denial.
The Farm Girl waited.
The Old Farmer kicked at a clod of soil.
Finally he said, “Your father was obsessed with roots.”
A smile almost came to her face.
“Yes.”
“He kept digging holes.”
“That also sounds like him.”
“He thought compaction was killing yields on both our places.”
“Was it?”
The Old Farmer looked toward his soybean field across the fence.
“Partly.”
“And sunflowers?”
“Helped.”
The Farm Girl stared.