Documented their source locations.
And sealed them for transport.
Dileia watched every step.
Not because she distrusted the scientists personally.
Because she finally understood how much the material might matter.
When the work was finished, Dr. Meier stood beside her near the tractor shed.
He looked toward the rows of gray-green plants.
Then asked, “Have you considered what happens if the research succeeds?”
Dileia laughed.
“I've mostly been considering what happens if the bank takes the house.”
He nodded sympathetically.
Then continued.
“But imagine the financial problem is solved.”
She became quiet.
He looked toward the land.
“Would you want to remain a farmer?”
Dileia stared.
Nobody had asked her that question in years.
People had asked whether she would sell.
Whether she could survive.
Whether the roots were worthless.
Whether she was being foolish.
But nobody had asked what she wanted.
She looked toward the farmhouse.
The machine shed.
The dry hills.
Then the fields her father had planted.
Finally, she smiled.
“Yes.”
Her voice became firmer.
“Yes, I would.”
Dr. Meier nodded.
“Then make sure any future agreement lets you remain one.”
That afternoon, the bank approved a short written extension of the cure deadline after reviewing the documented funding process and updated financial information.
It wasn't a gift.
The underlying loan remained due under its terms.
But Dileia now had a defined opportunity to complete the transaction without losing the property while the necessary verification was underway.
She drove home with the extension letter resting on the passenger seat.
For the first time in months, she turned on the truck radio.
A country song played.
She sang along badly.
Laughed at herself.
Then began crying halfway through the chorus.
She missed her father.
She missed him so badly that sometimes success felt painful.
Every good development brought the same thought.
Dad should be here.
When she reached the farm, she carried the letter into the kitchen.
Placed it beside Walter's photograph.
Then sat at the table.
“I'm trying,” she whispered.
For several minutes, she remained there.
Then she stood.
Because the work wasn't finished.
And Harlon Whitmore was about to make one last attempt to stop her.
The following evening, Dileia noticed headlights near the northern boundary.
The truck was parked beside a locked service gate.
Two figures stood near the fence.
One appeared to be examining the field beyond it.
The other held a flashlight.
Dileia didn't approach.
Instead, she returned to the farmhouse.
Checked that the doors were secured.
And contacted the sheriff's office.
She also called the retired mechanic, who lived nearby.
He answered immediately.