“You borrowed the rest?”
“Thirty-two thousand.”
Rayburn removed his cap.
“So if this fails…”
“I know.”
“You lose operating capital.”
“I know.”
“And harvest equipment.”
“I hired custom harvest.”
“That costs.”
“I know, Rayburn.”
He became quiet.
Della softened.
“I know.”
He looked down the ditch.
Fish moved beneath the surface.
“I hope you’re right.”
“So do I.”
That was the truth.
Confidence was something other people assigned to Della because she refused to cry in public.
Privately, she was terrified.
The first week almost killed the experiment.
Zone Four overheated.
Water temperature reached eighty-nine degrees by four in the afternoon.
Fish crowded near the aerator.
Della found thirty-seven dead the next morning.
She stood ankle-deep in water gathering them into a bucket.
Thirty-seven.
Not catastrophic.
But enough to feel personal.
She adjusted shade cloth.
Increased flow.
Added another aerator she could not afford.
Three nights later, a pump clogged with leaves.
She woke at 2:30 because the low-flow alarm on her phone sounded.
She drove across the field in pajamas and rubber boots.
Mosquitoes attacked every exposed inch of skin.
She cleaned the intake by flashlight.
At four, rain began.
At five, she returned to bed.
At six fifteen, thunder woke her.
By seven, lightning knocked out the power.
Della sat at the kitchen table staring at coffee.
“I hate fish.”
Her mother laughed through the phone.
“You loved fish last week.”
“Fish were theoretical last week.”
“You can quit.”
“No.”
“I know.”
Della smiled.
Her mother lived in Jackson now.
She had moved there two years before Thomas became sick because rural life had exhausted her.
She loved the farm.
She simply did not want to die maintaining it.
That distinction had caused years of tension between Della’s parents.
Now, from a distance, she supported Della without pretending the farm was sacred.
“If it ruins you, sell.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Land is not worth becoming miserable.”
“I’m not miserable.”
“You just told me you hate fish.”
“I’m temporarily fish-hostile.”
Her mother laughed.
That helped.
The first two weeks showed almost nothing.
Cotton emerged unevenly.
Field One looked average.
Field Two looked weak.
Field Three had patchy growth.
The neighbors continued with conventional fertilizer programs.
Large nurse tanks moved along roads.
Spreader trucks crossed fields.
Della used some starter fertilizer.
Less than half the county average.
That alone caused gossip.
Walter stopped beside the fence one afternoon.
“You starving it?”
“No.”
“Looks pale.”
“It’s six inches tall.”
“Mine’s greener.”
“Congratulations.”
“Just saying.”
“Then you can stop.”
Walter smiled.
“You’re touchy.”
“You drove here specifically to tell me my cotton looks bad.”
“I was passing.”
“You live west.”
He left.
Della watched his truck disappear.
Then walked into Field Two.
The cotton did look pale.
She hated that he was right.
She knelt.
Soil crumbled weakly in her fingers.
Still compacted.
Still tired.
The fish water had been circulating for only nineteen days.
Her father’s notes warned against expecting immediate changes.
Biological systems respond slower than invoices.
Another sentence.
She stood.
“Fine, Dad.”