Chapter 6 #2
"Come on," Rogan says gently. "Let's get these into the kitchen. Away from the other seeds. We'll figure this out."
"There's nothing to figure out. They're gone."
"Then we'll figure out what happens next."
He helps me stand. Carries the crate while I follow on numb legs. The kitchen is quiet after the noise of the swap. Clean and organized and everything in its place.
Unlike my carefully maintained seed library, apparently.
I set the contaminated packets in front of us. Stare at them like looking hard enough will reverse the mold, rewind the clock, let me check the crate one more time before leaving the greenhouse this morning.
"How long did your mother work on this strain?" Rogan asks.
"Fifteen years. Cross-pollinating. Selecting for specific traits. Drought resistance, late production, flavor." I touch one of the ruined packets. "She used to say these tomatoes were her love letter to the future. Something that would keep growing after she couldn't anymore."
"And you kept them going."
"Until now."
"Seventeen years isn't 'until now.' That's seventeen years of success. Seventeen seasons of keeping a promise." He moves closer. "One bad morning doesn't erase that."
"It does if this was the only viable seed stock left."
It hits me again. Not just the loss of seeds but the loss of possibility. Every plant that won't grow from these genetics. Every farmer who won't benefit from their resilience. Every season that will pass without this particular strain contributing to the local ecosystem.
All because I didn't check thoroughly enough before transport.
"Do you have backup stock?" Rogan asks. "Somewhere else?"
"I distributed most of it last year because the seeds were getting old.
Needed fresh growing cycles." I press my palms over the counter.
"I kept these as my personal stock. For emergency distribution and my own planting.
I thought I was being responsible. Thought I was managing the resource correctly. "
"You were. You are."
"Clearly not."
He stills. "How many seeds in a packet?"
"Depends. Thirty to fifty for tomatoes usually."
"So across twelve packets, you had..."
"Maybe five hundred seeds. Give or take."
"And you need how many to restart the strain?"
I see where he's going. Feel the tiny, impossible spark of hope.
"One. Technically you only need one viable seed to continue a line if you're willing to do very careful selection and accept some genetic bottleneck." I grasp a packet. Carefully open it. "But the odds of finding even one viable seed in this mess..."
"Are better than zero."
"Marginally."
"Then we look. Tonight. After everyone leaves. We sort through every single seed and find the ones that aren't contaminated."
"That could take hours. You have service. Prep for the Foundation catering."
"Maya can handle service. The Foundation prep can wait." He meets my eyes. "This matters. Your mother's work matters. We're not giving up without trying."
My throat closes. I can't speak past the sudden pressure of gratitude and grief and fear all tangled together.
The kitchen door swings open. Mayor Elsie pokes her head in.
"Everything all right? People are asking where you went."
I straighten. Force my face into something resembling calm.
"Fine. Just dealing with some contaminated stock. I'll be out in a minute."
She frowns. "Anything serious?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
It's a lie but she accepts it with a nod and withdraws.
I look at Rogan. At the ruined seed packets. At the mess I've made of something I swore to protect.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Tonight. We look."
"We'll find something."
"You can't know that."
"No. But I can hope. And I can help you look. That's enough to start."
Outside, the seed swap continues. Inside, I stand in a professional kitchen surrounded by contaminated seeds and a chef who somehow thinks hope is a reasonable response to disaster.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe one viable seed is enough.
I pick up my notebook. Return to the swap. Smile at people and answer questions and pretend my world isn't quietly collapsing in the kitchen.
But my mind keeps circling back. Five hundred seeds. One viable option buried somewhere in the ruin.
The seed swap winds down around five. People leave with their packets and promises to report back on germination rates. The bistro empties slowly, reluctantly, the way good gatherings always do.
I stay behind to clean up. Sort the remaining viable seeds. Pack away tables. Avoid thinking about what comes next.
Rogan works the dinner service with Maya while I sit in the corner booth, methodically examining every single contaminated seed under my portable microscope.
Three hours and twenty minutes of hunching over the microscope. Four hundred and seventy-three individual seeds examined, photographed, cross-referenced against my contamination criteria.
Zero viable candidates. Not even close. Not even marginal.
My eyes burn from the eyepiece strain. My back aches from the sustained crouch over the booth table, spine curved in a way my chiropractor would lecture me about. The reality settles over me like frost, slow, inevitable, crystallizing into something I can't deny anymore.
It's gone. Really, truly gone. The last genetic remnant of my mother's careful selection work, her years of observation and saving and refining, reduced to laboratory curiosities. Beautiful failures. Seeds that will never germinate, never fruit, never pass their heritage forward.
I'm methodically packing up my equipment, microscope in its padded case, contaminated samples sealed in labeled bags for disposal, field notes stacked and clipped, when Maya slides into the booth across from me.
She's still in her service blacks, but she's kicked off her shoes and her hair's escaping its neat bun.
"Bad?" she asks, watching me seal the last bag with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.
I meet her eyes. Don't bother softening it. "Complete loss."
"Rogan told me. About your mom's strain." She drums her fingers on the table. "What if we got more?"
"There is no more. I distributed the last backup stock."
"Who'd you give it to?"
I blink. Pull out my field notebook. Flip to last spring's distribution records.
Seven farmers received Purple Cherokee stock. I cross-reference with my mental map of who's still actively growing, who saved seeds properly, who might have surplus.
"Farmer Hank got twenty seeds. He's meticulous about saving. But he lives forty-five minutes away and doesn't answer his phone after eight."
Maya checks her watch. "It's seven-thirty."
"He also has three livestock guardian dogs and a shotgun he likes to display prominently."
"So we ask nicely."
"At night. Unannounced. For seeds he's probably already storing for his own spring planting."
"You got a better idea?"
I don't. That's the problem, and we both know it. I stare down at the crossed-out names in my notebook, the shrinking list of possibilities, the arithmetic of failure.
Rogan emerges from the kitchen, apron already off, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
His hair's still chaotic from the dinner rush, more disheveled than usual, if that's even possible.
There's a smudge of something dark on his forearm.
Balsamic, maybe. Or the blackberry reduction he was testing earlier.
"We going?" he asks, like it's already decided.
"Going where?" I look between him and Maya, suspicious.
"Farmer Hank's place. To get your seeds back." He says it like it's obvious, like this is a perfectly reasonable plan that doesn't involve showing up unannounced at a notoriously private farmer's property well after dark.
"That's not how this works," I say slowly, carefully, as if explaining basic agriculture to someone who should absolutely know better. "You can't just take seeds from people's winter storage. That's his inventory. His insurance for spring."
"We're not taking. We're asking. Politely." The grin spreads across his face, the one that probably gets him out of trouble more often than it should. "With bribery."
I stare at him. "Bribery."
"I made him that preserve he likes. The spicy fig thing. Three jars. Plus I'll promise him priority access to the Heritage Foundation menu when we cater it. Local supplier spotlight. Good publicity."
"Assuming we actually get the contract."
"We will. But first we get your seeds." He's already pulling on his jacket. "Come on. Worst case he says no and we've wasted an hour."
"Worst case his dogs eat us."
"I'm great with dogs."
"You are not great with dogs. I've seen you around dogs. You're nervous around dogs."
Maya stands. "I'm driving. You two can argue in the backseat."
I should say no. Should accept the loss gracefully and start planning alternatives. Should not drag two people on a ridiculous midnight rescue mission for seeds that may not even exist anymore.
But I'm already grabbing my coat.
We pile into Maya's truck. She drives while Rogan navigates and I sit in the back clutching my field notebook like a talisman.
The roads narrow as we leave town. Trees close in. Farmland spreads dark and silent under a sliver of moon.
"Left up here," I say. "Then the second driveway. Look for the blue mailbox."
"Got it." Maya slows. "So what's the plan? We knock? Or do we text first?"
"Hank doesn't text. He considers it impersonal."
"So we knock. At eight o'clock at night. At a farm. What could go wrong?"
Rogan laughs. Actual laughter, bright and reckless. "Everything. That's what makes it interesting."
We turn into the driveway. Gravel crunches under the tires. Motion-sensor lights flare to life.
And the dogs start barking.
Three of them. Massive white shapes that materialize from the darkness like furry ghosts. They surround the truck, baying enthusiastically.
"Great dogs," Rogan says weakly. "Very... spirited dogs."
The porch light clicks on. Farmer Hank appears in the doorway, silhouetted and distinctly holding something long and cylindrical.