Chapter 6 #3
"That better not be who I think it is," he calls.
I roll down my window. "Hi, Hank. It's Ivy. From the seed program."
"I know who you are. What're you doing on my property after dark with a truck full of city folk?"
"They're not city folk. Well, Rogan is. But he owns the bistro now. And Maya works there. And we're really sorry to bother you but I have a situation."
The dogs continue their symphony. Hank stands motionless.
Then he sighs. "Dogs, quiet."
Instant silence. The dogs sit, tongues lolling, looking absurdly pleased with themselves.
"Come on up to the porch. Slow. Don't make any sudden moves or Daisy gets nervous."
We exit the truck carefully. The largest dog—presumably Daisy—watches us with intense focus.
Hank's porch smells like wood smoke and coffee. He sets down what I now see is a walking stick, not a weapon, and crosses his arms.
"Well?"
I explain. The contamination. The loss. The desperate hope that maybe, possibly, he still has some of the Purple Cherokee stock I gave him last spring.
Hank listens without interrupting. His face gives nothing away.
When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment.
"You came all the way out here," he finally says at last, voice gruff and measured, weighted with something between skepticism and grudging interest, "at night, to ask for seeds."
"Yes," I reply simply, not daring to elaborate.
"Seeds I was planning to plant come April." Each word drops like a stone. "Seeds I was counting on for my spring rotation."
"Yes. I know. I'm sorry." My hands twist the strap of my satchel. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I wouldn't impose on you like this, showing up unannounced, disrupting your evening, if there was any other option."
Hank's jaw works. The porch light casts deep shadows across his weathered face, making his expression even harder to read.
"Important how?" He shifts his weight, the old boards creaking under his boots. "What makes these seeds worth a forty-five minute drive in the dark? Worth coming out here with strangers and waking my dogs?"
Rogan steps forward. Holds out a paper bag. "These might help explain."
Hank peers inside. Pulls out a jar of preserves. His expression shifts. Softens microscopically.
"This the fig thing from last year's festival?"
"Made fresh yesterday. Three jars. And I'm offering you supplier spotlight for the Heritage Foundation catering event. Your name on the menu. Your produce featured. Good for business."
"I don't need business. Got more orders than I can handle."
"Then we'll owe you a favor," I say. "A real one. The kind you can call in anytime."
Hank looks at me. At the preserves. At his dogs, who've arranged themselves in a neat row like furry judges.
"How many seeds you need?"
"Minimum ten. Twenty would be safer for genetic diversity."
"I've got thirty-seven. Saved 'em proper, in the cold storage." He shakes his head. "Your mother was particular about these tomatoes. Used to tell me they were tougher than most people. Said they'd survive things that would kill softer varieties."
My throat tightens. "She was right."
"Yeah. She usually was." He moves toward the barn. "Wait here. Don't pet the dogs. Daisy bites when she's friendly."
We stand on the porch in silence. Maya gives me a significant look. Rogan bounces slightly on his heels, energy barely contained.
Hank returns five minutes later with a small glass vial. Inside, thirty-seven purple-dark tomato seeds rest in careful arrangement.
I take it with shaking hands.
"Thank you," I manage. "Really. This means—"
"I know what it means. Why d'you think I saved 'em so careful?" He accepts the preserves from Rogan. "Now get off my property before the dogs decide you're toys."
We retreat to the truck. The dogs escort us to the driveway, tails wagging.
As soon as we're back on the main road, Maya whoops.
"We did it! Actual seed heist! That was amazing!"
"That was terrifying," Rogan says. "I thought Daisy was going to eat my ankles."
"Daisy's a sweetheart. She just has boundary issues."
I clutch the vial, not quite believing it's real. Thirty-seven seeds. Enough to restart the strain. Enough to keep my mother's work alive.
We're halfway back to town when Maya's phone rings. She glances at it, then curses.
"What?" Rogan asks.
"Trailer hitch just came loose. I can feel it dragging."
She pulls over. We pile out to investigate.
The small equipment trailer Maya uses for catering supplies has indeed come loose. It's dragging at an angle, one corner dug into the gravel shoulder.
"How did that happen?" I ask.
"Old hitch. I've been meaning to replace it." Maya crouches to examine the connection. "We need to reattach it but I don't have the right tools."
Rogan pulls out his phone. "I'll call a tow service."
"At nine o'clock on a Saturday? In Pine Hollow?" Maya snorts. "We'll be waiting until Monday."
"So we leave the trailer."
"With three hundred dollars worth of equipment inside? No thanks."
I look at the trailer. The hitch. The utterly inadequate collection of tools in Maya's emergency kit.
"I might have something," I say slowly. "There's a farm supply place about fifteen minutes back. They have an automated lockbox for after-hours emergencies. If I can access it with my co-op membership, I can get proper tools."
"That's a thing?" Rogan asks.
"It's a rural thing. People need equipment at weird hours."
We climb back in the truck. Maya drives us to the supply place, a low building with industrial lighting and a reinforced lockbox mounted outside.
I swipe my membership card. The box clicks open, revealing organized rows of tools and supplies.
"This is the most practical thing I've ever seen," Rogan says reverently.
"Welcome to farm country."
I grab what we need. Sign the digital log. Lock the box.
Back at the trailer, Maya and I work the hitch while Rogan holds a flashlight and provides commentary.
"Little to the left. No, your other left. Is it supposed to make that sound?"
"Yes," Maya and I say in unison.
Twenty minutes of wrestling later, the hitch clicks into place. Secure. Stable.
We collapse against the truck, breathing hard.
"That," Maya says, "was way harder than the actual seed rescue."
"The seed rescue involved bribery and cute dogs," Rogan points out. "This involved actual manual labor."
"You held a flashlight."
"Crucial flashlight work. Very technical."
I laugh despite myself. Despite everything. We're standing on the side of a dark road, covered in gravel dust and probably trespassing on someone's supply account, and I'm laughing.
Rogan looks my eyes. Grins.
"Worth it?" he asks quietly.
I touch the vial in my pocket. Feel the small weight of thirty-seven seeds. Thirty-seven chances to continue something that matters.
"Yeah. Worth it."
We pile back into the truck. Maya drives us home while Rogan fiddles with the radio and I catalog everything that just happened in my field notebook.
Drove to Farmer Hank's farm. Retrieved Purple Cherokee backup stock. Successfully avoided dog bites and shotgun threats. Fixed trailer hitch using co-op emergency supplies.
Not my usual Saturday night.
We reach the bistro around ten. The building is dark except for the security light over the kitchen entrance.
"Thank you," I tell them both. "For doing this. For helping."
"That's what we do," Maya says. "We help. Even when it's weird and involves angry farm dogs."
"Especially then," Rogan adds.
I should go home. Should get these seeds into proper storage and start planning spring propagation.
Instead I follow them into the bistro kitchen. Watch Rogan immediately start prepping for tomorrow's service while Maya reviews the evening's receipts.
They move around each other with practiced ease. A rhythm built from weeks of working together. Rogan pulls vegetables from the walk-in while Maya calls out ticket times. They're building something here. Something that extends beyond just food or business.
Community. The real kind. The kind that shows up at nine o'clock on a Saturday night to rescue seeds from a grumpy farmer with territorial dogs.
My phone vibrates. Email notification.
I open it, expecting seed co-op updates or workshop confirmations.
Instead it's from the Heritage Foundation.
Subject line: Follow-up Required.
My stomach roils.
"What's wrong?" Rogan asks.
I scan the email. Read it twice to make sure I'm understanding correctly.
"They want proof of scaled sourcing capability. Full supplier list with capacity projections. Quality assurance documentation." I look up. "Due next Friday."
"That's one week," Maya says.
"I'm aware."
"We haven't even finalized the full menu yet."
"Also aware."
Rogan sets down his knife. "What happens if we don't provide it?"
"They choose a different caterer. We lose the contract. The bistro loses its best shot at debt relief and future stability."
The kitchen goes quiet. All the lightness from our ridiculous rescue mission evaporates.
This is real. Stakes that matter. And we have seven days to prove we can deliver on a scale we've never attempted before.
"Okay," Rogan says finally. "Then we work. Maya, pull every local supplier contact we have. Ivy, you know the farmers. Who can handle increased orders without compromising quality?"
"Most of them. If we plan carefully and don't ask for anything out of season."
"Then we plan. Tonight. Now. We build this documentation and we make it bulletproof."
He's already pulling out his aunt's recipe book. Maya's typing rapid-fire on her phone. They're moving into crisis mode like it's choreographed.
I should be panicking. Should be calculating failure percentages and backup contingencies.
Instead I'm thinking about Rogan standing on Farmer Hank's porch at eight-thirty at night, offering preserves and promises for seeds he doesn't personally need.
About Maya driving forty-five minutes in the dark because I asked.
About three hundred and seventy-three dead seeds and thirty-seven living ones and the difference between giving up and trying one more impossible thing.
"Alright," I say, pulling out my own notebook. "Let's build a supplier network that'll make the Foundation wonder how they ever considered anyone else."
Rogan grins. Fierce and bright and absolutely reckless.
"Now you're talking."
We spread out across the kitchen counter. Notebooks and laptops and supplier catalogs and half-drunk coffee.
Outside, Pine Hollow sleeps. Inside, we work.
Seven days to prove we're worth the risk.
Seven days to build something neither of us could manage alone.
I think about my mother's tomato seeds. About keeping promises. About things that survive when they shouldn't.
My phone chimes again. Another email. Another deadline.
I silence it and keep working.