“No.”
“Then where exactly do you think they’re going?”
“Back to your plant.”
He laughed.
The woman looked directly at him.
The laugh stopped.
“You’ve already dumped one load without authorization.”
“You crushed my fence.”
“You’ve damaged pasture.”
“And now you’re threatening to keep dumping because returning your own material costs you money.”
The manager stepped closer.
“Lady, I’m trying to explain reality.”
“Explain it.”
“You sue us, you wait.”
“You hire someone to remove this, you pay today.”
“Those pumpkins are your problem now.”
The woman looked toward the mountain.
He thought he had won.
She could see it.
Not legally.
Psychologically.
He had looked at her boots.
The barn.
The tired pickup.
The sagging fence.
Probably the house.
He had already calculated how much confrontation a struggling single mother could afford.
Most people believed power looked like money.
Sometimes it looked like being able to make the other person spend money first.
He believed cleanup costs would force her to accept the load.
Maybe he was right.
Then one pumpkin near the edge rolled open.
It had cracked during dumping.
The woman saw the inside.
Bright orange.
Firm flesh.
Clean seeds.
No rot.
She stopped.
The manager was still talking.
Something about disposal fees.
Insurance.
Organic waste.
The woman barely heard him.
She walked toward the broken pumpkin.
The manager frowned.
“What are you doing?”
She crouched.
Pulled a small folding knife from her pocket.
Cut deeper.
The flesh was fresh.
No fermentation.
No mold.
She smelled it.
Normal.
The manager called:
“I told you they’re rejects.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why were these rejected?”
“I already said.”
“Say it again.”
“Too large for the line.”
“All of them?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is not all.”
He sighed.
“Some irregular shapes.”
“Some cosmetic damage.”
“Nothing rotten?”
“Not when they left.”
The woman looked toward the pile.
Then toward her goats.
The animals had moved closer along the fence.
Several stretched their necks through the wire.
One doe gave a demanding bleat.
The woman looked back at the pumpkin.
Pumpkin was not magic feed.
She knew that.
It was mostly water.
Low compared with hay in dry matter.
It could not replace forage.
Too much sudden dietary change could create digestive problems.
But pumpkin flesh had value.
Palatable.
Moisture.
Energy.
Fiber.
Seeds too, though she would not build a ration around Internet folklore or stories about natural dewormers.
What mattered was cost.
Her winter goat ration included hay first.
Always.
Then grain or a balanced concentrate for certain groups.
Minerals.
Salt.