He saw anger.
That encouraged him.
He noticed the spiral notebook resting beside the tree.
“Is this the research?”
He picked it up.
“Give me that.”
He opened it.
Pages of measurements.
Sketches.
Dates.
Rainfall.
Wind direction.
He laughed.
“You write down dirt temperatures?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Give it back.”
He tossed the notebook toward her.
It landed short.
In mud.
Nobody laughed then.
Her father moved.
She lifted one hand.
“Dad.”
The neighboring farmer seemed to realize he had crossed something.
Only briefly.
He said:
“Relax.”
The young farmer picked up the notebook.
Mud covered the lower corner.
She wiped it against her jeans.
The neighboring farmer pointed toward the sapling he had disturbed.
“When these things die, don’t ask me to help pull them out.”
She knelt.
Repacked soil around the roots.
Then said:
“I won’t.”
He left.
Her father waited until the truck disappeared.
Then:
“I could still hit him.”
“No.”
“Just once.”
“No.”
“He threw your notebook.”
“I noticed.”
Her father muttered.
She smiled despite herself.
Then looked at the damaged page.
The writing remained readable.
Good.
That evening she copied the important measurements into a spreadsheet.
And bought waterproof field notebooks.
Lesson one.
The first summer nearly proved the neighbor right.
Rain disappeared in June.
Then July.
Temperatures climbed.
The young trees were exactly what critics said they were.
Additional work.
She hauled water.
Checked drip lines.
Replaced mulch.
Straightened tubes.
Protected trunks from rodents.
Deer found gaps.
Rabbits chewed several shrubs.
One row developed leaf scorch.
Her father asked whether they should abandon the most stressed section.
“No.”
“Some are dead.”
“I know.”
“How many?”
“Seventeen so far.”
By August, twenty-eight were gone.
She marked each in the notebook.
Species.
Location.
Likely cause.
Some died from transplant shock.
Some insufficient water.
Three from deer damage.
One mysteriously snapped.
Her father suspected the neighbor jokingly.
She did not.
At the end of the season, 312 survived.
That number would later become famous.
At the time, it felt like failure.
She stood at the fence one evening.
Brown grass.
Tiny trees.
Dust.
Five acres removed from crops.
Her father came beside her.
“Thinking about quitting?”
She did not answer.
“That means yes.”
“I underestimated establishment labor.”
“Yes.”
“Tree tubes overheated some seedlings.”
“Probably.”
“The drip line pressure is inconsistent at the south end.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
She smiled reluctantly.
He continued.
“How many lived?”
“Three hundred twelve.”
“That’s ninety-two percent.”
“Ninety-one point eight.”
He stared.
She laughed.