People became funnier when they were less certain.
Ray Mercer stopped beside the field one evening.
Ethan was cultivating between rows.
Ray waited until Ethan shut down.
“Looks clean.”
“Mostly.”
“Got some grass over there.”
“I know.”
Ray pointed toward the plants.
“How tall?”
“Average four feet eight.”
“You measure?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.”
Ray walked closer.
He touched one leaf.
“You fertilize?”
“Starter and side-dress.”
“How much?”
Ethan told him.
Ray whistled.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Corn would eat twice that.”
“More.”
Ray nodded.
“So input savings are real.”
Ethan looked at him.
“You thought I invented the numbers?”
“I thought you read numbers written by people trying to sell sunflower seed.”
Fair.
Ethan said:
“I used extension data too.”
Ray walked several steps.
“Root depth?”
“Better than corn.”
“Dry weather?”
“Supposed to handle it.”
Ray looked toward the sky.
“May get to test that.”
He was right.
Rain stopped.
The last measurable shower came July 7.
Then heat.
Not catastrophic at first.
Just dry.
Corn leaves on neighboring farms began curling by afternoon.
Soybeans slowed.
Field Seven stood.
The sunflowers drooped during the hottest hours but recovered each evening.
Their roots moved deeper.
Ethan dug around several plants.
Measured moisture.
Recorded everything.
July 18.
No rain.
July 23.
No rain.
July 27.
Clouds appeared.
Produced eight minutes of useless drizzle.
Ethan stood beside the barn and cursed them.
Ruth heard.
“Language.”
“Dad said worse.”
“Your father paid the mortgage.”
Ethan stopped.
Ruth immediately regretted it.
“I'm sorry.”
He looked toward the field.
“No. You’re right.”
She walked beside him.
“You don't have to earn being his son.”
Ethan said nothing.
That was the pressure beneath everything.
Not simply saving the farm.
Proving that Daniel Walker had not left a child incapable of holding what remained.
Ruth knew.
“Your father made mistakes.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Lots.”
“You never say that.”
“I loved him.”
She smiled sadly.
“That doesn’t mean he became perfect when he died.”
They watched the sunflowers.
“You know what he would actually say?”
“What?”
Ruth lowered her voice, imitating Daniel.
“Boy, if this fails, blame the weather.”
Ethan laughed.
That night rain came.
Less than an inch.
Enough.
The sunflowers responded almost immediately.
By early August, yellow appeared.
First one head.
Then hundreds.
Then thousands.
Within a week, Field Seven became gold.
Cars slowed.
Not just farmers.