Chapter 11
ELEVEN
NOW I’M TWENTY-SIX
My alarm starts beeping, and I quickly roll over to turn it off.
Fuck, it’s cold.
I groan, shove the blankets back, and reach for the hoodie I left crumpled on the floor.
The floorboards are cold under my bare feet as I step into the living room and see the faintest orange glow in the wood stove from the few remaining coals.
It’s a cooler end to April this year, and I’m more than ready for the end of cold nights.
This old cabin is drafty, and there’s a lot of work I should do to it before next winter so it holds heat better.
But I’ve already been in here for two years, and I say that every summer.
I shove a couple logs into the stove and coax the fire back to life before heading into the kitchen.
I don’t turn on any lights, even though it’s 4:30 AM and still dark.
The soft glow of the early morning sky outside streams through the windows to light up the counter space just enough for me to get the coffee brewing, and keeps everything feeling still and peaceful.
Eventually, the smell of coffee fills the kitchen, and the warmth from the wood stove slowly works its way through the cabin.
And the glow from the fire highlights the many unfinished projects that Dad keeps bugging me about.
He wanted me to keep living in the house with him until we could do more work on the cabin, but I like it as it is.
I don’t care about fancy trim and painted walls.
This cabin has always been here, nestled in the woods just behind the farm and my grandparents’ house on the property, and nothing has been done with it for as long as I can remember.
But I put in more insulation and replaced a couple windows, and it’s all I need.
By the time the coffee’s ready, I’m dressed in my jeans, hoodie, and hat, and the sky is beginning to brighten. I pour my coffee into my travel mug and step outside into the crisp morning air.
My boots crunch softly in the gravel as I head down the long driveway towards the farm, and I pull in a deep breath.
It’s so quiet and still out here this early, it feels like I’m the only one awake.
The sun is just starting to rise over the treeline across the field, with a faint, soft glow along the horizon.
It won’t be long now until my walk to work is lit by the hazy orange glow of the summer sunrises, and I’m looking forward to it.
The farm and Dad’s house come into view across the field, with soft lights glowing against the early dawn, and farther up the driveway, my grandparents’ house is lit as well.
As I approach, the front door opens, and Mama steps out onto the porch in her housecoat and slippers.
“Morning, honey,” she says as I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
“Morning,” I reply. And before I can say anything else, she holds up a hand.
“I do it because I love you.” Then she holds out a paper bag.
I sigh as I climb the steps and take it. “Thanks, Mama.”
She nods with a soft smile. “If I didn’t feed you, I swear you wouldn’t eat.” Then she gestures to the bag in my hand. “Fried egg sandwich and fruit. Eat it.”
“I will,” I say with a nod.
“Alright.” Papa exits the house, shrugging his jacket on. “Let’s get to it.”
I roll my eyes as he heads down the stairs. “You know you’re retired, right?”
He waves a hand and continues down the driveway. “What’s the fun in that?”
Mama chuckles and leans in to kiss my cheek before nudging me to follow him. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” I say, and jog to catch up with Papa as he heads towards the farm.
“You looking at the planters today?” he asks when I reach him.
“Yeah,” I say, looking out over the field we’re walking along. “Hoping to have them done by the end of the day.”
“Good man.” He nods. “We’ll be ready to plant in about two weeks, I’d say, given the forecast.”
I eye him as we approach the garage. “We?”
We stop outside the garage, and he tilts his head as he looks at me with a sly smile. “You’d rather I go sit on my porch and watch you work the fields? Or do you want a hand?”
I roll my eyes again. “Why do you even say you’re retired if you’re not?”
He smiles. “Because I am.”
Papa claps a hand on my shoulder as I sigh, then I turn to push the garage door open as he heads for the office across the lot.
I’m the first one here so I flick on all the lights, and look over the planters I parked in here yesterday.
I started going over them last night, making note of everything that needed maintenance after winter storage.
One of them has a split in the vacuum tube, so I’ll start with that one, and hopefully I can get to everything and have them done by the end of the day.
I set my coffee and breakfast on the workbench, unwrap the sandwich, and take a bite before grabbing a screwdriver and heading to the planter with the split vacuum tube.
I kneel beside it and start removing the panel, when I hear the side door open, followed by boots on the concrete. And I already know it’s Dad.
“Morning.”
I glance up from the open housing on the planter as Dad stops beside the workbench with his coffee in one hand and a folder tucked under his arm.
“Morning,” I say, pushing to my feet and letting my eyes fall to the folder, knowing exactly what that is.
“Got the report back on that field,” Dad says, holding it up.
“Yeah…” I say slowly, setting the screwdriver on the bench.
The field that gave us a crop full of hollow heart a few years ago has been giving us problems ever since.
One season, we make changes and pull a decent crop, but the next year, it just slips right back into the same problem.
I keep working at it, adjusting planting depth, irrigation, and more, and keep trying to understand what it wants.
But we have no proof that any of this is working, because the results aren’t consistent.
Dad ordered a Field Variability and Yield Risk Assessment since our yields from that field are all over the place, and the costs are high for what we’re getting back.
He passes the folder to me, and I flip it open.
My eyes scan the blocks of text, charts layered over other charts, and countless sections of shit that look like someone just scribbled a bunch of lines and called it work.
Words blur together as it all becomes more complicated, talking about correlations, yields, costs, and other shit I can’t understand, with random numbers scattered everywhere.
The longer I stare at it, begging my brain to just fucking focus and try, the more frustrated I get. My hands start tingling, my muscles tighten, and my jaw clenches.
I snap the folder shut and throw it on the desk, then squeeze my eyes shut and rub a hand over my face.
Fuck.
“It’s ok,” Dad says gently, picking up the folder and tucking it back under his arm. “Want me to tell you?”
I nod and drop onto the stool, fixing my gaze on the planter in front of me with its cover off and hoses exposed. The kind of thing I can actually understand.
Dad sits on a stool next to me. “They pulled together everything we have from the past several seasons,” he says. “Soil samples, yield records, hollow heart reports, irrigation logs—everything. Then they compared this field to the rest of the farm.”
He pauses, and I nod for him to continue.
“Some years that field performs like the others,” he says. “And other years, that yield is significantly reduced due to hollow heart.”
I nod again. We already knew that.
“The problem is the pattern,” he continues. “Hollow heart isn’t showing up every year. They couldn’t pin it on fertilizer, nutrient deficiencies, water systems, or seed stock. Everything is within recommended ranges.”
My brow furrows. and I shift my gaze to meet his. “So… what’s wrong then?”
Dad shrugs. “Everything you already found. Parts of the field hold water longer than others, and some sections have more compaction that we can’t seem to fix.”
“But that’s something we can fix,” I say, turning to face him.
Dad sighs and leans his elbow on the workbench. “I don’t think so, bud. There’s nothing in this report that justifies planting in this field again.”
“So you’re just giving up on it?” I say, with more anger than I intended. I don’t really understand why it's bothering me so much. Even though I’ve put so much work into that field and know we can get it back. I know we can.
Dad stays quiet for a moment before he shakes his head. “We don’t give up. But,” he tilts his head to catch my eye, “we also can’t keep pouring money into a field that might behave and might not. Planting there again is a gamble. And we can’t keep taking gambles.”
I sigh and let my gaze slide to the report under his arm.
I know what he’s saying. And I get it. But I just can’t seem to let this field go.
“We need to put our efforts where it counts,” Dad continues.
“The years we’ve lost that yield dragged our totals way down.
And now, pulling that field out of rotation will drop our output across the board.
And we still have contracts to meet. The rest of the farm now has to carry that weight, so we need to tighten things up everywhere else and make sure the fields we can rely on perform the way we expect.
That field gave us early crops and strong yields when it cooperated, so losing it is going to put more pressure on the others.
We need to start preparing a replacement field now so we can hopefully have it next year. ”
I blow out a slow breath. “Ok.”
“Ok,” Dad echoes. Then he reaches forward to clap a hand on my knee before standing and heading for the door.
I keep my eyes on the planter as my mind wanders, thinking of everything we’ve done over the past couple years.
Of what’s worked and hasn’t worked, and everything I know about farming, and about this particular field.
I know exactly what section dries first, and when the tubers are going to swell too fast. I know the new irrigation helped until the timing slipped during a stretch of uneven weather, and I know which sections have compaction problems after rain.
And I know this field is different than the rest of them.
It’s different than the ones that do as they’re told and perform well year after year.
They’re predictable and valuable. While this one sometimes is…
and sometimes isn’t. It’s angry, demands attention, and doesn’t always listen… because it’s not able to.
Because maybe it hasn’t been given the right chance yet.
I look up just as Dad reaches the garage door.
“Dad,” I call out as I stand.
He turns to face me. “Yeah?”
“Um…” I take a few steps towards him, trying to figure out exactly what it is I’m even asking. “Do you think… Can I have another year?”
His brow creases.
“With the field?” I ask. “I just… I really want to make it work. I think it just needs more…” I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it needs. But I really want to try. I don’t want to lose it.”
Dad’s eyes flick between mine, and I wait, knowing the answer is going to be no. It costs a lot of money to keep a field active, and if we get nothing out of it, it’s a complete waste. And why would the farm willingly dump money into a known failure?
Why would anyone put anything into a known failure?
Just as I’m about to tell him never mind, he nods.
“Ok.”
“What?” I ask with wide eyes. “Seriously?”
He chuckles. “If this report had something concrete to give us for why this field was failing, it would be a hard no.” He shrugs with a sigh. “But I also don’t want to lose that field. So maybe one more year could be worth it. But only one.” He points a finger at me.
I nod quickly. “Yeah. One. Got it.”
He huffs with a half-smile and turns towards the door again.
“Oh, and,” I say, stepping forward.
He stops and slowly turns, giving me a warning look. “Take the win, Silas.”
I chuckle. “No, nothing else. Just…” I point at the report. “Can I have that?”
His eyebrows lift, and he hesitates for a moment before holding it out for me. “Sure.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it and trying to ignore the daunting feeling of the thick report in my hands.
Dad nods with a small smile, then turns and leaves.
I stand in the empty garage and look down at the folder. I know I can’t make sense of it, but… I want to try. I need to try to make this work. I need to understand this field in any way I can.
It became mine over the past few years, when everything else felt like it was falling apart. I don’t know how to fix it, and everything I’ve tried has failed. But it’s the only thing that’s allowed me to fail—and stayed.
And I can’t lose anything else.