Silence.
Luke folded his hands.
“Why are you doing this?”
Noah stared.
“To help the farm.”
“I know that answer.”
“Give me the other one.”
“There isn’t another.”
Luke waited.
Noah hated being waited out.
His father was good at it.
Finally:
“I saw the bank letter.”
Luke’s face changed.
“What letter?”
“You know.”
“How much?”
“The ninety days.”
Luke leaned back.
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“You went through my mail?”
“It was on the counter.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“All?”
“Enough.”
Luke rubbed his face.
“Noah.”
“I know the debt.”
Luke looked up sharply.
“You do not need to know the debt.”
“I live here.”
“That does not make it your responsibility.”
“If we lose the farm, I lose it too.”
Luke had no answer.
Noah continued.
“I heard you talking to Uncle Ben.”
“You said maybe sell the lower twenty acres.”
Luke closed his eyes.
“Noah.”
“That’s where Mom’s garden is.”
There it was.
Not money.
Not compost.
The wound beneath all of it.
Rachel’s garden.
The lower field.
A small fenced area near the creek where she grew beans, tomatoes, dahlias, herbs, strawberries.
After she died, Luke stopped planting half.
Noah maintained the rest.
Selling the lower parcel would probably mean selling the garden.
Luke’s voice softened.
“I haven't sold anything.”
“You thought about it.”
“Yes.”
“Because we need money.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m trying.”
“You are thirteen.”
Noah’s eyes filled.
“Stop saying that like it means I can't do anything.”
Luke’s face broke.
He stood.
Walked around table.
Noah looked away.
Luke knelt beside his chair.
“I am saying it because you shouldn’t have to save us.”
Noah’s mouth tightened.
“What if I can help?”
“That is different.”
“How?”
“Helping means carrying something with me.”
“Saving means believing the whole roof falls if you stop holding it.”
Luke put a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“I will not let you become thirteen years old and already think everybody’s survival is your job.”
Noah started crying.
He hated that too.
Luke pulled him closer.
For a minute neither spoke.
Then Noah whispered:
“But the idea works.”
Luke laughed softly into his hair.
“I know.”
“You saw numbers.”
“Yes.”
“The market pays almost five thousand a week during peak waste.”
“Numbers are back.”
“Sorry.”
Luke sat on floor.
Noah wiped his face.
Luke looked toward the clipboard.