Wind: twenty miles per hour.
Nora lay beneath the pipe with a wrench while mash dripped onto her coat.
At six-thirty, Ed Walker drove past.
He stopped.
Nora saw his boots approach.
“You dead?”
“Not yet.”
“What broke?”
“Everything.”
Ed crouched.
“Frozen?”
“Partly.”
He looked at the pipe.
“You need heat tape.”
“I know.”
“You got any?”
“No.”
“I do.”
Nora stared.
Ed stood.
“Don't make a thing out of it.”
Thirty minutes later he returned.
They spent two hours fixing the system.
Neither mentioned the laughter from December.
When the pump started again, Ed wiped his hands.
“You owe me.”
“How much?”
“Coffee.”
“That cheap?”
“No. Your coffee's terrible.”
They went inside.
Ed sat at the kitchen table.
The notebook lay open.
He saw columns.
Numbers.
Weigh dates.
Ration adjustments.
“That's what you've been doing?”
Nora looked.
“What?”
“All that.”
“Yes.”
Ed flipped one page carefully.
“Every animal?”
“Groups mostly.”
“Costs too?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“You really did plan this.”
Nora poured coffee.
“What did you think?”
“I thought you were desperate.”
“I was.”
Ed nodded.
“Same thing sometimes.”
That hurt because it was true.
He drank.
Made a face.
“Coffee's still terrible.”
“Leave.”
He laughed.
Then pointed toward the notebook.
“If this works…”
Nora waited.
Ed did not finish.
He did not need to.
Spring brought mud.
Then grass.
Nora expanded the program cautiously.
Not every animal.
Not every stage.
She had learned enough to know one feed source was not magic.
The spent mash worked because it fit a system.
Pasture.
Hay.
Minerals.
Water.
Management.
Timing.
If she treated it like a miracle, it would become a problem.
She installed better drainage around the receiving area.
Bought a used tank.
Improved trough access.
Replaced one pump with a stronger unit.
Every improvement came from savings the program created.
That mattered to Nora.
The farm was beginning to finance its own adaptation.
Howard Keller at Prairie State Bank noticed.
During spring review, he sat across from Nora and studied the operating statement.
“Feed expense is down.”
“Yes.”
“A lot.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Alternative feed source.”
“What kind?”
“Distillery byproduct.”
Howard removed his glasses.
“Alcohol?”
“No.”
“You feed cattle distillery waste?”
Nora smiled.
“You sound like Ed.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Howard read again.
“Is this stable?”
“I don't know yet.”
He looked surprised.
Most borrowers sold certainty.
Nora did not.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the distillery could change production.”
“Transportation could rise.”
“Nutrient content varies.”