“I’m not.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
After hanging up, Marin sat at the kitchen table.
Thomas watched.
“Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
She looked up.
“That’s good?”
“Means you still understand consequences.”
By then, her average sampled moisture had fallen.
West ridge:
13.8%.
Center:
14.7%.
North low:
16.4%.
Still too uneven for Marin.
The forecast said storm arrival Friday evening.
Thursday would be the obvious day to cut.
If she started at first light and pushed late, she could probably take most of forty acres.
Walt finished his wheat Thursday afternoon.
Nearly everyone did.
At four, his combine stopped near the fence.
He climbed down and walked across.
“This is your last chance.”
Marin stood beside the field.
“I know.”
“You could have my second truck.”
“Thank you.”
“My grandson will drive.”
“Thank you.”
“You want the combine too after dark, we’ll run two.”
That mattered.
Walt was not mocking her.
He was genuinely offering.
Marin almost said yes.
The sky looked wrong.
Wind had increased.
Storm warnings filled her phone.
Every practical instinct screamed:
Harvest.
Then she sampled the north end again.
15.9.
Closer.
She squeezed a kernel.
Hard.
Not fully.
She checked the most recent rainfall forecast.
Expected total:
1.2 to 2 inches over twelve hours.
Wind gusts:
35 to 45 mph, potentially higher.
Serious.
Not necessarily catastrophic.
If hail developed, none of her reasoning mattered.
If winds reached sixty, standing wheat could lodge badly.
If rain persisted longer, sprouting risk increased.
She walked twenty yards into the field.
Closed her eyes.
Listened to heads rustle.
Then returned.
“No.”
Walt stared.
“No?”
“Not tonight.”
He looked toward the west.
“Marin.”
“I know.”
He shook his head.
“All right.”
Before leaving, he said:
“I hope you get to tell me I was wrong.”
She watched him walk away.
“I don’t.”
He turned.
“What?”
“I hope the wheat’s fine.”
“That’s enough.”
Walt smiled despite himself.
Friday morning, the county extension agent arrived.
Dr. Ben Carter.
Thirty-eight.
Agronomist.
Patient.
Not condescending, which Marin appreciated.
He walked the field with her.
They sampled.
He examined stalks.
Checked heads.
Looked at weather data.
Finally:
“If this were mine, I’d harvest.”
Marin nodded.
“I figured.”
“Not because you’re obviously wrong.”
“That’s comforting.”
He smiled.
“Because downside risk in standing mature wheat is large.”
“I know.”
“You’re what, fourteen to sixteen depending on zone?”
“About.”
“You could blend.”