Every morning.
Every night.
She woke at three once because she dreamed the mulch had caught fire.
She drove the fields with headlights on.
Nothing burned.
She sat in the truck and cried from exhaustion.
Farming did that.
Turned rational adults into people checking dirt at three in the morning because their dreams had become weather forecasts.
July arrived.
The drought became serious.
County wells dropped.
Irrigation restrictions were discussed.
Pastures yellowed.
Silas stopped mocking.
That was when Clara knew things were bad.
He still came to the fence.
But the jokes disappeared.
One afternoon, Clara saw him staring at his sorghum.
Leaves curled.
Tips browned.
He held a moisture probe.
Pushed.
Pulled.
Moved ten feet.
Tried again.
Clara continued repairing a fence post.
Silas finally called:
“How deep you wet?”
She looked up.
“What?”
“Your soil.”
“How deep's the moisture?”
Clara leaned on the post driver.
“Which section?”
“The hull field.”
“About eight inches where I checked this morning.”
Silas stared.
“After how much irrigation?”
She told him.
His expression changed.
“You lying?”
Clara almost smiled.
“No.”
He walked toward the fence.
“Show me.”
She paused.
Months earlier, she might have enjoyed making him ask again.
Now his face looked different.
Tired.
Not proud.
Scared.
She opened the gate.
Silas stepped through.
No jokes.
No comments about garbage.
Clara handed him a shovel.
“Pick anywhere.”
He walked thirty yards.
Drove the blade in.
Turned soil.
Dark beneath the top layer.
He squeezed.
The clod held.
He stared.
Then crossed toward the conventional strip.
Dug.
Drier.
Harder.
He returned.
“How?”
Clara pointed toward the hull field.
“Shade.”
“Carbon.”
“Better infiltration.”
“Less evaporation.”
“Root channels.”
“Biology.”
Silas looked irritated.
“That’s words.”
“They're the answer.”
“No chemical?”
“No secret treatment?”
“No polymer?”
“No.”
“Wet agent?”
“No.”
“Different seed?”
“Same hybrid in the comparison rows.”
Silas stared at the soil in his palm.
Clara watched.
For the first time, he looked old.
Not sixty-four old.
Defeated old.
“How much water did you save?”
“Depends which block.”
“Average.”
“Twenty-eight percent so far.”
His head snapped up.
“Twenty-eight?”
“Approximately.”
“You sure?”
“I meter everything.”
He looked toward his field.
Then back.