ago was this filed?” I asked.
Rachel checked.
“Seven years, eleven months.”
The corn maze opening was scheduled less than three weeks before the eight-year date.
There it was.
That was why the event could not fail.
That was why Trish needed people physically walking my land.
That was why hundreds of ticket holders mattered.
Not because of cider.
Not because of charity.
Not because of autumn tourism.
They needed documented public use before the deadline.
If they could claim the agreement had existed uncontested for eight years, they planned to trigger the conversion clause.
The maze was the final piece.
And I had harvested it thirty-six hours before they needed it.
Rachel leaned back.
“That’s why they sold so many tickets.”
I stared at the screen.
“Witnesses.”
“Exactly.”
“One thousand eight hundred witnesses showing they used the land.”
“Plus vendors. Sponsors. Marketing. Event insurance.”
“Manufactured evidence.”
“Yes.”
She zoomed
