He looked at her.
“Don’t lose any of it.”
“Why?”
“Because people are going to start asking.”
They already were.
At the diner two mornings later, Clara entered for coffee and the room changed.
Not silent.
But quieter.
Farmers looked up.
Earl sat near the window.
The man who had laughed beside him weeks earlier occupied the next chair.
Clara ordered black coffee.
The waitress poured it.
As Clara turned to leave, someone said, “Hey.”
She stopped.
A farmer she barely knew pointed toward an empty chair.
“You really haven’t irrigated that east field?”
Clara looked around.
“No.”
“How long?”
“Since the last real rain.”
A second man frowned.
“What are you reading at twelve inches?”
Clara almost smiled.
Three months ago, nobody cared about her measurements.
Now six men were waiting.
She gave the number.
Someone whistled.
Earl stared into his cup.
The first farmer asked, “That rotten produce doing it?”
“Not by itself.”
“What else?”
“Straw. Old hay. Crop residue. Thin layers. Soil organisms. Time.”
“Smells like hell.”
“It did.”
Laughter.
Not cruel this time.
Curious.
A man near the counter asked, “You got problems with flies?”
“Early.”
“Rats?”
“No.”
“Disease?”
“Not yet.”
“What are you planting?”
She answered.
Questions followed.
Clara stood with the coffee growing cold in her hand.
Finally Earl looked up.
“You charging admission now?”
The room laughed.
Clara looked at him.
“Should.”
He smiled.
Day twenty-eight.
No rain.
Corn leaves throughout the county began rolling into narrow spears by afternoon.
Pastures turned pale.
Cattle gathered beneath trees.
The temperature reached one hundred and one.
Clara woke at four-thirty every morning.
She walked the experimental field before sunrise.
Plants in treated rows opened overnight and held themselves until early afternoon.
Control rows showed stress by ten.
She measured.
Wrote.
Photographed.
Repeated.
The bank called on day thirty-one.
Clara stood beside the barn when her phone rang.
“Ms. Whitlock.”
“Yes.”
“We need to discuss your operating note.”
“I know.”
“The July payment is approaching.”
“I know.”
“Do you have a plan?”
Clara looked toward the field.
“Yes.”
Silence.
The banker waited.
“What is it?”
“Harvest.”
Another silence.
“Ms. Whitlock, I need something more specific.”
She understood.
Bankers could not lend against confidence.
“I have a developer offer.”
“We’re aware.”
“I’m not taking it yet.”
The banker sighed quietly.
“Why?”
Clara almost laughed.