Epilogue #4
I tuck my phone away before I see the typing bubbles appear like disapproval.
A sanding truck roars by in the opposite lane, tossing grit that pings my windshield like sleet. I unclench my jaw, sip lukewarm coffee, and keep going. Every time I think I’ve found my rhythm, the road changes, demanding more caution. It feels like being tested. Or warned.
By the time I finally roll down into the valley toward the Black Bear blocks, it’s afternoon, and I’m exhausted in that unglamorous way that makes everything feel heavier than it is.
I make a mental note to get a reservation at the little motel in downtown Black Bear.
I don’t think I’ll make it back tonight.
I pull the truck into the vineyard’s dirt road, only to feel the tires sink. Mud. Thick, sucking mud that swallows the wheels up to the hubs. My stomach drops. There shouldn’t be mud, not this time of year, not with the freeze. Something’s wrong.
I climb out, boots squelching as I land, and the smell hits first—wet earth and something metallic, the cold tang of water where it shouldn’t be. The wind picks up, threading through bare canes and rattling the wire like a warning.
Block ten’s supposed to be the problem, but as I walk the lines, it’s clear this isn’t isolated. It’s worse—so much worse.
I kneel at the irrigation box. The lid is rimed with ice, and when I pry it open, my fingers burn. The gauge shivers higher than I’d like, and there’s a muffled hiss beneath it that shouldn’t be there. I follow the sound, boot-prints filling with water as fast as I lift my feet.
As I chase it, I realize the water has spread across more than half the acreage, impacting almost a hundred acres of vines—our prized merlot and cabernet.
This isn’t the drip line having a bit of water left in it.
This is a full-on water pipe issue. These rows represent years of choosing, pruning, mending.
Years of saying no to impatience. It’s the kind of fruit you can’t buy with money, only with time.
My chest tightens. If we lose these, the damage won’t just sting. It’ll cripple.
Panic claws at my ribs, but I shove it down and throw myself into the work.
I shut off the main in sections, listening to the lines groan as they empty, then cracking them open to bleed to keep anything from bursting.
Hands raw from cold, I twist valves that fight me, wrestle a stubborn regulator back into place, dig with numb fingers to redirect the water that keeps pooling in the low spots.
Mud sucks at my boots like it wants to keep me.
Twice I have to brace on the post to yank my foot free.
I curse, then apologize to no one, then curse again.
The water is running somewhere I can’t see.
I crawl under the trellis to check the drip line, then catch a thin silver stream cutting across the row.
I follow it until I reach a small waterfall, where part of the bank has crumbled away.
It doesn’t seem to be sabotage, not obviously—just bad timing and worse weather and a system pushed to the edge when it should be sleeping.
I pull a shovel and begin digging trenches to reroute the water away from the vines, but I struggle to keep up with the amount of water flowing. I need to get it turned off.
The sun drops fast, shadows swallowing the rows, until I’m left with only the harsh beams of my truck headlights cutting through the dark and a head lamp to keep me from falling on my face.
The light turns the mist to glitter and the mud to tar.
My sweater is soaked through, my jeans heavy, and still I work, mud streaking my hands and knees.
My breath fogs out in ragged bursts, stinging in my throat.
I do the math in my head because numbers keep me from panicking. Even if I stem half the flow tonight, the ground is saturated. We’ll need a pump at first light. We’ll need sandbags along the bottom rows. We’ll need…help. I hate the word. I hate needing it. But the vines don’t care about my pride.
This isn’t my kind of Saturday night. Most people my age are at bars or curled up with Netflix.
Me? I’m knee-deep in mud, trying to save vines worth more than my entire life savings.
And when I finally stop long enough to take in the reality, one thought pounds through me: I’m not getting home tonight.
The truck’s stuck. The storm’s rolling in faster.
I’ll need a ride into Black Bear, and I’ve not made a reservation yet.
Dad will worry, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
I’ll text him once I get back to the truck—tell him I’m safe, tell him I’ve got it contained “for now.” I’ll lie just enough to let him sleep.
I stand, brushing my filthy hands on my jeans, ready to turn back toward the truck—and freeze.
The sharp, unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked slices through the night.
Every muscle locks. My breath stops in my throat.
I’m not alone.