“We received notice of a potential title encumbrance.”
“From who?”
“I can't discuss another client.”
“You mean his company.”
“I cannot discuss—”
“My planting loan is already approved.”
“Future advances are under review.”
“I need fungicide next week.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
The young mother stopped.
Anger would not create credit.
She breathed.
“What would satisfy the bank?”
“Legal opinion that the dispute does not impair collateral.”
She called the attorney.
More paperwork.
More delay.
That afternoon, a neighboring farmer stopped by.
He had laughed when she planted corn.
Now he brought two unopened boxes of fungicide.
She stared.
“What’s this?”
“Had extra.”
“You don't.”
He looked toward the field.
“No.”
“I don’t.”
“Then?”
He shrugged.
“My father lost eighty acres in 1987.”
“To who?”
The wealthy family.
The young farmer became still.
“Water trouble?”
“Drought.”
“So we thought.”
He looked toward the strange green lines.
“Use the chemical.”
“Pay me after harvest.”
She swallowed.
“Thank you.”
He shifted awkwardly.
“And…”
“What?”
“Sorry.”
“For?”
“The gravel-road joke.”
She smiled.
“That was pretty good.”
“No.”
“It wasn't.”
“Still.”
He left.
The story spread.
Not online first.
Through coffee shops.
Farm supply counters.
Pickup windows.
Old men remembered things.
A retired excavator called.
“I laid some of that line.”
The young farmer nearly dropped her phone.
“When?”
“Summer of eighty-four.”
“Do you remember the route?”
“I remember we worked nights.”
“Why?”
“Heat.”
He paused.
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Your grandfather was angry.”
“About what?”
“Said we were too far south.”
The young farmer closed her eyes.
Her letter.
Exactly.
The excavator continued.
“Boss told us paperwork was handled.”
“Who was boss?”
He named the wealthy landowner’s father.
“Did you see an easement?”
“Kid, I was twenty-two.”
“I saw a paycheck.”
“Was the line supposed to be temporary?”
“Every man on that crew thought so.”
“How do you know?”
“Pipe joints.”
“What about them?”
“Cheap gaskets.”
“Temporary burial depth in places.”
“We were told it came out after drought.”
The young farmer looked toward the corn.
“Why didn’t it?”
The retired excavator was silent.
“I left for Nebraska that winter.”
“When I came back three years later, everybody acted like it had always been there.”
“Did you ever ask?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“My boss told me to mind work that paid.”
The farmer wrote everything.
Then he said:
“There was a valve box.”
“Where?”
“East field.”
“Near a cottonwood that died years ago.”
Her heart accelerated.
“What valve?”
“Transfer split.”
“One line to reservoir.”
“One line toward the old district spring.”
“Still there?”
“No idea.”
The drone pattern showed a perfect intersection near where an enormous dead cottonwood stump remained.
She called the technician.