A message from one of the cooperative farms.
Their berry greenhouse had a ventilation problem.
Temperature climbing.
She looked at the time.
So much for philosophical endings.
She called.
“What’s the vent position?”
A younger farmer answered.
“Seventy percent.”
“Wind direction?”
“Southwest.”
“Humidity?”
He gave the number.
She frowned.
“Your intake screen is probably clogged.”
“We cleaned it Monday.”
“Check again.”
A pause.
Then footsteps.
Metal.
More footsteps.
The farmer came back.
“You were right.”
She smiled.
“I know.”
“Don’t get arrogant.”
“I learned from the best.”
She ended the call.
Outside the greenhouse, her mother sat beneath the oak tree.
The surviving half had continued growing.
Years earlier, the fallen section had finally been removed.
New growth had formed along one side of the trunk.
Not symmetrical.
Not perfect.
Alive.
Her mother held two glasses of iced tea.
“You done teaching college kids how to look at trash?”
“They’re agricultural students.”
“So educated trash inspectors.”
The farmer laughed.
She sat beside her mother.
For a while they watched workers loading the final delivery truck.
Her mother nodded toward the original greenhouse.
“You ever think about the three million?”
“Sometimes.”
“Regret it?”
“No.”
“Never?”
The farmer thought.
“Sometimes I regret not negotiating for four.”
Her mother laughed.
“That’s my girl.”
They sat quietly.
The farmer looked toward the colored walls.
“I almost signed it.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You left the contract on the kitchen table.”
“I thought you didn’t read it.”
“I raised you.”
“Of course I read it.”
The farmer smiled.
“What would you have done?”
“If you signed?”
“Yes.”
Her mother shrugged.
“Help you pack.”
“That’s it?”
“What did you want me to do?”
“Stop me?”
“No.”
Her mother looked at her.
“You were grown.”
“It was your land too.”
“And I trusted you.”
Those words landed differently than praise.
Trust.
Not prediction.