“I won't promise funds before an agreement is properly approved. But I will ask our commercial team to evaluate an initial option payment for a limited research period.”
Dileia swallowed.
“Would it be enough?”
“I don't know yet.”
She appreciated the honesty.
Then he added something that surprised her.
“Whatever happens, please do not transfer ownership of the farm based on a verbal promise from anyone, including me.”
She nodded.
“I won't.”
When they returned to the auction yard, Harlon was gone.
His truck had disappeared.
But the farmers were still talking.
Some approached Dileia.
Others stood awkwardly beside their stalls.
The man who had called the roots petrified firewood looked deeply uncomfortable.
He stepped toward her.
“Listen, I didn't know any of that.”
Dileia stared at him.
He glanced toward the crates.
“I'm sorry about what I said.”
She considered his apology.
Then nodded.
“Thank you.”
Another buyer asked whether he could purchase a few roots for inspection.
She declined.
Not rudely.
Carefully.
The material needed identification and proper handling.
She wasn't going to distribute experimental plant stock because people suddenly believed it might be expensive.
By late afternoon, several strangers had offered her business cards.
An agricultural broker.
A laboratory supplier.
A private investor.
Even a man who claimed he knew a company willing to purchase the entire crop immediately.
Dileia accepted the cards.
But she signed nothing.
She remembered how quickly the market had changed.
That morning, the roots were garbage.
Now everyone wanted a piece.
The plants hadn't changed.
The people looking at them had.
She loaded the crates back onto the trailer.
The retired mechanic helped secure the cargo.
Then he looked toward her.
“You okay?”
Dileia stared toward the setting sun.
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Finally, she whispered, “I wish Dad had been here.”
The older man looked away.
His eyes filled.
“Me too.”
She swallowed.
“He spent twenty years waiting for somebody to take him seriously.”
The mechanic nodded.
“And now they're finally listening.”
Dileia looked toward the roots.
Then back at him.
“Too late for him.”
The old man shook his head gently.
“Too late for him to hear it.”
He paused.
“But not too late for his work to matter.”
Dileia began crying.
The mechanic stepped closer.
She rested her forehead against his shoulder.
For several minutes, they stood beside the trailer while the market emptied around them.
Then Dileia wiped her cheeks.
Climbed into the truck.
And drove home.
She expected to feel triumphant.
Instead, she felt frightened.
Because now she had something Harlon wanted badly enough to lie about.