traffic.
No hayrides.
No cider tents.
No eighteen hundred strangers wandering through my crop.
Just geese over the creek and the steady hum of the grain dryer.
At 8:17, Rachel called.
“Get dressed.”
“I am dressed.”
“Court clothes.”
“Why?”
“Bradley filed for an emergency temporary restraining order.”
“Against what? The corn’s already gone.”
“Against further interference with HOA access.”
I stopped pouring coffee.
“Access to what?”
“Your north field.”
“For what?”
“He won’t say.”
That brought back Trish’s sentence.
You think this is about a corn maze.
By 10:30, we were inside the Cedar County courthouse.
Bradley sat with Trish.
She looked composed again.
Navy suit.
Pearl earrings.
Stack of folders.
The judge was Ellen Marsh.
Sixty-four years old.
Former prosecutor.
Known for two things.
Punctuality.
And impatience with nonsense.
Bradley argued first.
He said Cedar Ridge possessed contractual seasonal access to the Mercer property.
He said my
