Nobody spoke.
James asked:
“What does that mean?”
Naomi looked toward Della.
“It means the crop is not the most important result.”
Della felt something move through her chest.
Naomi continued.
“The soil is responding.”
Rayburn frowned.
“To fish water?”
“Not only.”
Naomi explained.
Reduced synthetic loading.
Continuous low-level nutrient delivery.
More consistent moisture.
Organic inputs.
Microbial stimulation.
Root growth.
Sediment cycling.
Possibly compounds introduced through the fish system.
They needed more study.
A lot more.
“But,” Naomi said, “this does not look like a one-season yield trick.”
Della stared at the report.
“My father thought the soil could recover.”
Naomi nodded.
“He may have been right.”
The newspaper came the next morning.
Then television.
Then regional agriculture magazines.
The headline appeared everywhere.
YOUNG MISSISSIPPI FARMER BEATS COUNTY COTTON YIELD WITH FISH-FED IRRIGATION SYSTEM.
Della hated “fish-fed.”
The cotton did not eat fish.
Nobody cared.
The story spread.
Visitors multiplied.
Universities called.
Aquaculture companies called.
Technology startups called.
Investors called.
Martin Voss called twice.
Della ignored him.
Then another company called.
AgriCore Nutrient Systems.
One of the largest agricultural input companies in the region.
Their executive, Richard Sloan, requested a private meeting.
Della almost declined.
Her mother said:
“At least hear the number.”
“What number?”
“The number rich people use to reveal whether they want your idea or your soul.”
Della laughed.
She agreed.
Richard arrived in November.
No tie.
Expensive jacket.
Clean truck.
Another clean-boots man.
He toured the channels.
Read sample summaries.
Asked good questions.
That made him more dangerous.
After lunch, they sat at Della’s kitchen table.
Richard opened a folder.
“We want exclusive commercialization rights.”
“To what?”
“Your integrated method.”
“It isn’t patented.”
“We can help.”
“My father designed most of it.”
“His estate belongs to you.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Richard folded his hands.
“We are prepared to offer one-point-eight million dollars upfront.”
Della stopped.
Her mother, sitting quietly near the window, did not move.
“One-point-eight?”
“Plus royalties.”
“What exactly do you own?”
“Exclusive license to system architecture, feeding protocol, nutrient integration data, software monitoring model, and future commercial development.”
Della laughed.
“You want everything.”
“We want to scale it.”
“To help farmers?”
“To build a business.”
“At what price per farm?”
“Too early to estimate.”
“Try.”
Richard paused.
“Commercial installations could vary substantially.”
“Try.”
“Maybe two hundred thousand for medium operations.”
Della stared.
“My entire system cost eighty-seven.”
“You built a prototype.”
“I built what farmers can afford.”
“You also took enormous risk.”
“Yes.”
“Our version reduces that.”
“By making them finance two hundred thousand.”
Richard leaned back.
“We are not villains, Ms. Marsh.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Your father’s idea could reach thousands of farms.”
“Could they afford it?”
“With financing.”