“That's the last load from the south pile?”
The manager blinked.
“What?”
“The south pile.”
“How would I know?”
“You said you were clearing it.”
The manager stared at him.
The boy continued.
“If there's another load, bring it.”
One mill worker chuckled.
“You fixing to bury the whole farm?”
The boy looked toward him.
“No.”
The worker pointed at the enormous mound.
“What do you call that?”
“Material.”
The men laughed.
The manager walked closer.
“Material.”
“Yes.”
“You know what we call it?”
The boy already knew.
“Waste.”
“Exactly.”
The manager pointed toward the pile.
“Rice comes into our mill. Grain leaves. Husks stay. Nobody wants them.”
“I do.”
The manager looked toward the boy's field.
Corn nearest the fence stood unevenly.
Some plants were tall.
Others stunted.
Several leaves had yellowed early.
“You're sixteen.”
The boy looked back.
“Yes.”
“You think dumping garbage over worn-out ground is farming?”
“No.”
“Then what do you think you're doing?”
The boy lifted the notebook slightly.
“Testing.”
One of the workers laughed.
The manager reached out.
“Let me see that.”
The boy did not hand it over.
The manager took it anyway.
He opened several pages.
Rainfall dates.
Field sketches.
Rows of numbers.
Drawings of soil layers.
Ratios.
Notes.
Words such as:
HUSK ONLY
HUSK + MANURE
CHAR
CLOVER
WATER INFILTRATION
WORMS AFTER 9 WEEKS
The manager flipped another page.
“What is all this?”
“Records.”
“Looks like homework.”
“It isn't.”
The manager shut the notebook with a slap.
“Kid, your father needs actual fertilizer.”
“I know.”
“He needs lime.”
“I know.”
“He needs money.”
The boy's expression changed slightly.
The manager noticed.
He smiled.
“And you're piling rice trash along the fence like some miracle is going to happen.”
The boy held out his hand.
“My notebook.”
The manager looked at it.
Then tossed it.
It landed in the newly dumped husks.
One corner disappeared.
The mill workers laughed.
The boy stared.
“Pick it up,” he said.
The manager's smile widened.
“What?”
“You threw it. Pick it up.”
The air changed.
The workers stopped laughing as loudly.
The manager stepped forward.
“Don't tell me what to do on a commercial unloading site.”
“This is our farm.”
“Not this access lane.”
The boy moved toward the notebook.
The manager caught his shoulder.
“Wait until the truck finishes.”
The boy pulled free.
“Don't touch me.”
“Then listen.”
The boy reached again.
The manager shoved him backward.
Not hard enough to send him to the ground.
Hard enough that his heel struck the lowest fence rail.
He stumbled.
His cap almost fell off.
The manager pointed toward the husks.
“This is why children don't run farms.”
The boy steadied himself.
He looked at the man's boot.