βI'm not trying to feed the county, Mr. Harker.β
Dale grinned.
βThen what are you doing?β
βFollowing my grandfather's instructions.β
The men laughed harder.
βYour grandpa's dead, son,β Billy said. βAnd those instructions aren't going to bring him back.β
Noah's fingers stopped.
For a moment, he stared at the garlic bulb resting in his glove.
His grandfather had been dead for ninety-three days.
Noah knew the exact number.
He had counted every morning.
He had counted because the world seemed to expect him to move forward, while a part of him remained trapped in the hospital room where his grandfather had squeezed his hand for the last time.
He lowered his head.
Then placed the bulb into the soil.
Dale's expression became impatient.
βI'm talking to you.β
Noah looked up.
His brown eyes were tired, but steady.
βI heard you.β
βThen tell me why you're wasting perfectly good planting ground.β
Noah glanced toward the cracked field.
βIt isn't wasted.β
Pete laughed.
βSon, nothing's grown here all summer!β
βNot yet.β
That answer made Dale's smile disappear.
He leaned farther over the fence.
βListen carefully, boy. I've farmed this county longer than you've been alive. Your mother is behind on the equipment loan, your barn needs a new roof, and your grandfather left you nothing but a pile of unpaid bills.β
Noah swallowed.
Dale pointed toward the six rows.
βYou want to help your mother? Stop playing farmer and tell her to sell.β
The boy looked toward the house.
His mother was working a double shift at the hospital in Ash Creek. She wouldn't return until nearly midnight.
She didn't know Dale had been stopping by almost every afternoon.
She didn't know how often the men laughed.
And she didn't know that Noah had begun hiding his tears behind the old barn whenever the insults became too much.
He looked back toward Dale.
βMom says the farm isn't for sale.β
Dale laughed coldly.