Eli smiled awkwardly.
“Maybe.”
“Good answer.”
She led him into an office.
For the next hour, Denise did something almost nobody at Sunday dinner had done.
She took the idea seriously enough to challenge it properly.
“How large is the drainage area feeding the depression?”
Eli did not know.
“What’s your soil profile?”
“Heavy clay.”
“How heavy?”
“I don't know.”
“Seasonal water table?”
“I don't know.”
“Does the property have an existing water-right restriction?”
“I don't think so.”
“Thinking is not useful.”
She asked where overflow would go.
Whether fish could escape during floods.
Whether state law allowed stocking the species he wanted.
Whether transport required documentation.
Whether a farm pond connected to public drainage changed any permitting obligations.
Eli filled three pages.
Finally he said:
“I thought you'd tell me whether the idea was good.”
Denise smiled.
“I am.”
“This is what that sounds like.”
Two days later, Denise drove to the farm.
Grant came too.
So did Roy, though Roy claimed he only happened to be checking a fence.
Denise studied the depression.
She walked the perimeter.
Used a hand auger at five locations.
At the third hole, she rolled a lump of damp soil between her fingers.
“Good clay content.”
Eli tried not to look too pleased.
She pointed toward the west boundary.
“Where does this overflow in a wet spring?”
Eli showed her.
Denise followed the old drainage line.
“You'd need a proper spillway.”
“Not just a hole in the bank.”
“And some kind of screened outlet if you're stocking fish.”
Grant asked:
“Will it hold water?”
“Probably.”
Denise said.
“But probably is why we test.”
They dug two deeper test pits.
Filled one.
Marked the level.
Returned the next day.
Acceptable seepage.
Not perfect.
Good enough if the pond basin was properly compacted.
Denise pointed at Eli.
“Depth matters.”
“How much?”
“For your climate, you want enough depth that summer temperatures remain manageable and winter doesn't freeze the entire water column.”
“Six feet somewhere is reasonable.”
“Deeper isn't automatically better.”
“Your side slopes matter.”
“Safety matters.”
“Don't make vertical banks.”
Roy said:
“He was going to dig a square hole.”
“I was not.”
“You drew one.”
“That was a sketch.”
Denise smiled.
“Don't dig it square.”
Eli looked at Roy triumphantly.
“Fish don't care about rectangles.”
Denise continued.
“But water flow and shoreline management do.”
By the end of the visit, Eli had a revised plan.
The low quarter-acre would not become one giant pit.
The pond would occupy roughly 0.18 acre inside the flood-prone corner, irregularly shaped, with gradual banks, a deepest zone around six and a half feet, and an engineered overflow returning excess water to the existing drainage path.
Surface area would change with rainfall.
At full level, total volume would be roughly eight hundred to nine hundred cubic meters.
Large enough to support a meaningful trial.
Small enough to manage.
Most importantly, Denise made him call the state fisheries office before ordering anything.
The officer explained that common carp were regulated differently from native pond species and had to come from a licensed hatchery.
No wild fish.
No moving fish from public water.
No releasing them anywhere else.
Eli wrote every rule down.
That Sunday, he returned to the family table.
Grant had just cut into roast when Eli placed three printed pages beside his plate.
Roy looked delighted.
“Oh, good.”
“The fish corporation has a prospectus.”
Eli ignored him.
“Construction budget.”
“Water plan.”
“Stocking rules.”
“Feed estimate.”
“Market contacts.”
Grant wiped his hands and read.
The family ate around him.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Eli’s stomach tightened more with every page Grant turned.
Finally his father asked:
“How much are you asking from me?”
“Six hundred dollars.”
Roy choked slightly.
Grant looked up.
“For what?”
“Fuel.”
“Pipe for the overflow.”