She didn’t answer.
She simply gave me another slice of pie.
That was Theresa’s way of telling me I was being stubborn without starting an argument.
—
By late April, the soil was warm enough to plant.
Neighboring farmers began working their fields.
Dad’s land remained untouched.
I drove past it twice a day in the fertilizer truck.
The corn stalks from the previous harvest stood in silent rows.
No tractor.
No planter.
No activity.
I kept waiting for Phil to call.
He didn’t.
On May ninth, two inches of rain fell.
Three days later, I drove past the farm and saw a sixteen-row planter moving across the center-pivot quarter.
Behind it was an unfamiliar tractor.
A pickup with Kansas license plates was parked nearby.
Phil had hired an outside crew.
I slowed down.
The soil was still too wet.
I could see the planter wheels pressing muddy trenches into the field.
