“Next year.”
“Sixty-two bushels.”
His eyes shifted sharply.
“You read the ledger.”
“Yes.”
The Old Farmer looked almost annoyed at the dead man.
“He wrote everything.”
“Almost.”
Silence.
The Farm Girl understood.
The celebrated soybean record had come partly from soil preparation influenced by her father.
Not cheating.
Not theft.
But not a solitary triumph either.
“Did you give him credit?”
The Old Farmer looked toward the road.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the newspaper didn’t ask.”
“That’s an excuse.”
“Yes.”
“Did he mind?”
“No.”
“That makes it worse.”
He almost laughed.
“You’re very much his daughter.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”
“Neither do I.”
He started toward his truck.
Then stopped.
“Don’t cut the field yet.”
The Farm Girl looked up.
“What?”
“I was wrong.”
“About?”
“Storm loss.”
He nodded toward the lodged plants.
“Most heads are intact.”
She studied him.
“You just told me to cut losses.”
“I changed my mind.”
She smiled faintly.
“Maybe you’re learning.”
The Old Farmer looked offended.
“Don’t get ambitious.”
He left.
The Farm Girl returned to the field.
This time she saw the damage differently.
Not disaster.
Data.
She counted lodged plants.
Marked rows.
Estimated loss.
Seven percent in the worst section.
Less overall.
The cooperative agronomist visited.
“Ugly.”
“Yes.”
“Not fatal.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“You already counted.”
“Yes.”
“I figured.”
September arrived.
The field turned gold.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Forty acres of sunflower heads followed the sun until maturity gradually locked them facing east.
Drivers stopped along the county road.
Photographers came.
Children stood near the fence.
The Farm Girl disliked attention but tolerated it.
Her mother loved it.
She put a handwritten sign near the driveway.
SUNFLOWERS — PLEASE DO NOT ENTER FIELD.
Her daughter added:
AND PLEASE DON’T PICK THEM.
The sign lasted two days before someone stole it.
The Old Farmer replaced it with a metal one.
The Farm Girl looked at him.
“What?”
“People respect metal.”
“Do they?”
“No.”
He installed it anyway.
Harvest preparations began.
Sunflowers required adjustments.
Header settings.
Combine speed.
Moisture.
The Farm Girl worried constantly.
Her father’s old combine was not designed specifically for sunflower.
She rented attachments.
More money.
Another risk.
Then the county agricultural office called.