“The creek isn't out.”
“I am not an engineer.”
“Neither am I.”
Warren said.
“But I know which direction water runs.”
The credit officer spoke.
“We are not making a determination about causation.”
“We are discussing the loan.”
Warren looked at him.
“What happens?”
“If there is another materially impaired season without restructuring, asset sale, or additional collateral, the bank will have to consider enforcement remedies.”
“Foreclosure.”
The officer hesitated.
“Yes.”
Casey’s hand tightened around the coffee mug.
Gerald leaned forward.
“We don't want that.”
“Then stop talking like you do.”
“We want a voluntary solution.”
“The same eighty acres.”
“Yes.”
“Funny.”
Gerald’s face tightened.
Warren leaned back.
“Get out.”
The credit officer looked surprised.
“Mr. Puit.”
“I understand my loan.”
“You gave me the message.”
“Now get out.”
They left.
Casey watched from the kitchen window as the truck moved down the lane.
Then she looked toward her grandfather.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He stood.
“I’ve got work.”
He spent the day repairing a planter he might not even need.
That was how Warren handled fear.
He found a machine.
Casey handled fear differently.
She collected information.
The birds were the first thing she noticed.
Two mornings after the flooding, several dozen shorebirds worked the shallow margins.
By the end of the week, ducks appeared.
Then egrets.
Red-winged blackbirds gathered around vegetation emerging near the old drainage depression.
Warren saw inconvenience.
Casey saw pattern.
The water settled unevenly.
Some portions remained eighteen to twenty-four inches deep.
Others became shallow flats.
The submerged soybean rows trapped floating seed and organic debris.
Areas where drainage tile had already been failing behaved differently from areas with functioning outlets.
Casey took pictures from six fixed points.
Every morning at nearly the same time.
She hammered small numbered stakes into the ground outside the deepest areas.
One through six.
Measured water depth.
Recorded date.
Rainfall.
Temperature.
Cloud.
She borrowed a staff gauge from a former coworker and installed it near the center drainage channel.
Warren watched.
“You planning to write a book?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“I don't know yet.”
“That's reassuring.”
“Something is happening.”
“Yes.”
“My crop is rotting.”
“I know.”
“Then don't make it sound beautiful.”
Casey looked at him.
“I’m not.”
That was important.
She never romanticized the damage.
The soybean loss was real.
The financial pressure was real.
The land had not become wonderful because waterbirds arrived.
But Casey had spent enough time around restoration projects to recognize certain combinations.
Persistent shallow water.
Hydric-looking soils.
Volunteer wetland vegetation.
Historical low ground.
Wildlife response.
She also knew none of those alone meant money.
By late May, smartweed began appearing.
Sedges.
Rushes.
Cattails in older depressions.
The water carried small fish from connected drainage channels.
Crawfish burrows multiplied near the margins.
Frogs became loud enough at night that Warren closed his bedroom window.