“Then what makes you think those plants will live?”
Eli looked toward the small seedlings.
For a moment, he remembered his grandfather's voice.
Never argue with a dry field until you've checked what lies beneath it.
He took a breath.
“Grandpa showed me.”
Hank's expression changed.
For the briefest moment, something uncomfortable passed across his face.
Then he laughed again.
“Well, we'll see what your grandpa's rocks can do when August gets here.”
He turned toward the other men.
“Come on. We've wasted enough time watching a child destroy good soil.”
Gus leaned over the fence one last time.
“Hey, Eli!”
The boy looked up.
“When those watermelons turn to dust, don't come asking us for help!”
The men laughed as they walked toward their pickup truck.
Eli watched them go.
Then he turned back to his work.
His hands were aching.
His shirt was soaked with sweat.
And the sun felt as though it was pressing directly against the back of his neck.
He placed another stone.
Then another.
Finally, he whispered something no one else could hear.
“I'm trying, Grandpa.”
A faint breeze moved across the field.
Eli closed his eyes.
He could almost imagine his grandfather kneeling beside him, smelling of coffee, motor oil, and the peppermint candy he carried in his shirt pocket.
Don't quit just because somebody laughs, son.
Eli opened his eyes.
Then reached for the next stone.
He didn't know that the field beneath him contained something his grandfather had spent almost forty years studying.
He didn't know that Hank Barlow's laughter had as much to do with fear as contempt.
And he certainly didn't know that, six weeks later, the three men who mocked him would be standing at the same fence with tears in their eyes, staring at an enormous watermelon growing from the one field everyone believed was ruined.
By then, the county would be suffering through one of the worst dry spells anyone in town could remember.
Farmers would be hauling water to keep their remaining livestock alive.