Farmers wanted numbers.
Della wanted survival.
By late August, cotton bolls crowded the plants.
Rayburn walked the field again.
This time he brought Walter.
Walter had stopped making jokes.
He touched a branch.
Counted.
Moved to another.
Counted.
“Jesus.”
Rayburn said, “Language.”
“You count them.”
Rayburn did.
His face changed.
Della watched from several rows away.
Walter looked at her.
“What are you expecting?”
“Yield?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not saying.”
“Why?”
“Because cotton enjoys punishing predictions.”
Rayburn nodded.
“That may be the smartest thing you’ve said.”
Della looked at him.
“That sentence is why nobody likes you.”
A week later, Clayton Fertilizer Cooperative sent a representative.
Not a salesperson.
Vice president.
Martin Voss.
He wore clean boots.
Della distrusted clean boots on farms.
He walked the property with her.
“This is impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“You still use conventional nutrients.”
“Some.”
“So you’re not replacing fertilizer.”
“No.”
He seemed almost relieved.
Della noticed.
“Our records show you purchased forty-three percent of historical nitrogen volume.”
“Correct.”
“Phosphorus?”
“Thirty-one percent.”
“Potassium?”
“Fifty-eight.”
Martin stopped.
“That is substantial reduction.”
“Yes.”
“What do fish contribute?”
“Still measuring.”
He smiled.
“You’re careful.”
“My father taught me.”
“I knew Thomas.”
Della looked at him.
“Did you?”
“Sold him fertilizer fifteen years.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
Martin accepted the correction.
He looked toward the channels.
“We might be interested in supporting trials.”
“With money?”
“Possibly.”
“In exchange for?”
“Data.”
“No.”
“Licensing?”
“No.”
“Partnership?”
“What kind?”
“We’d need to discuss.”
Della smiled.
“That means a kind I won’t like.”
Martin laughed.
“You’re young.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The sentence people use before explaining why I should surrender leverage.”
He raised his hands.
“Fair.”
Harvest began September 29.
The custom picker entered Field One at seven in the morning.
Della stood near the headland.
Her mother had driven from Jackson.
Rayburn arrived without pretending he had another reason.
Walter came.
Earl.
Sam.
Naomi and her graduate students.
Even Martin Voss appeared.
Della looked at the crowd.
“This is ridiculous.”
Her mother smiled.
“You poured fish into cotton fields. You lost the right to normal harvests.”
The picker moved.
White cotton disappeared into the machine.
The onboard monitor displayed estimated yield.
Della refused to look.
After the first module was built, they weighed it.
Then another.
Numbers began accumulating.
Sam carried a clipboard.
Della avoided him.
At noon, he found her.