โYour mother will change her mind when the bank comes knocking.โ
Noah's jaw tightened.
He wanted to shout.
Wanted to tell Dale to leave.
Wanted to explain that his grandfather had spent forty-four years caring for the soil, measuring the water, and recording every change in the seasons.
But he remembered something Grandpa told him.
Never argue with a man who's laughing too loudly to hear you.
So Noah turned back toward his work.
He placed the final bulb into the sixth row.
Then he reached for the small green notebook lying beside his knee.
Dale watched him.
โWhat now?โ
Noah wrote down the time.
The soil temperature.
And the number of bulbs planted.
Billy shook his head.
โLook at him keeping records! Thinks he's some kind of scientist.โ
Pete laughed.
But a fourth man wasn't laughing.
He stood several yards behind the fence near the rusty wheelbarrow, wearing a faded beige work shirt, old jeans, and rubber boots. His name was Ezra Cole, and at seventy-two, he was one of the last people in Ash Creek who remembered what the Bennett farm had looked like before the old irrigation works were abandoned.
Ezra had known Noah's grandfather for more than fifty years.
He hadn't come to laugh.
He'd come because he'd heard that the boy was planting something strange along the northern fence.
Now he stared at the six rows.
His expression slowly changed.
He looked toward the first row.
Then the second.
Then the third.
His gaze followed the precise alignment of the furrows across the damaged soil.
Suddenly, his face went pale.
โNoah.โ
The boy looked up.
โYes, Mr. Cole?โ
Ezra gripped the fence.
โWho told you to put those rows there?โ
Noah glanced at the notebook.
โGrandpa.โ
Ezra took a step forward.
โExactly there?โ
The boy nodded.
โSix rows. Same spacing. Same direction.โ
Ezra stared at the garden.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.