Across the muddy yard.
Past the barn.
Toward the lower field where black soil stretched beneath rows of rye and clover.
Two years earlier, that field had been pale, hard, and almost lifeless.
He had spent more money fertilizing it than it produced.
Now earthworms filled every shovel.
Water soaked in instead of running away.
The neighbors had not noticed.
Not yet.
They would.
Calvin climbed back into his truck.
Before closing the door, he called:
“When those goats start glowing green, don’t ask me for hay.”
Ethan lifted one hand.
“Drive safe.”
The truck disappeared down the lane.
Ethan’s older sister, Grace, stepped from the farm store carrying a box of empty jars.
“You enjoy annoying him.”
Ethan resumed cutting squash.
“He arrives annoyed.”
“You help.”
“He deserves support.”
Grace set the box down.
“You know everyone thinks you’re insane.”
“Everyone thought Dad was insane when he switched to rotational grazing.”
“Dad was insane.”
“Sometimes.”
She looked into the goat pen.
Twenty-seven animals crowded around the feed trough.
Healthy coats.
Bright eyes.
Good body condition.
No goat appeared particularly concerned about public opinion.
Grace lowered her voice.
“The bank called.”
Ethan stopped cutting.
That sentence still did something to his stomach.
“What did they want?”
“Mr. Collins.”
“What about him?”
“Wants updated numbers.”
Ethan looked at her.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Of course.
Grace continued.
“He said the operating note review is next week.”
“I know.”
“You have enough?”
Ethan looked toward the barn.
Enough cash?
Maybe.
Enough collateral?
Probably not.
Enough optimism?
Dangerously variable.
“After Friday.”
Grace frowned.
“What’s Friday?”
Ethan returned to the squash.
“Hopefully nothing.”
“That means something.”
“No.”
“Ethan.”
He sighed.
“A buyer is coming.”
“For?”
“Cheese.”
Grace stared.
“How much cheese?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You know something.”
“Potential standing order.”
Her eyes widened.
“From where?”
“Des Moines.”
“That restaurant distributor?”
“Maybe.”
Grace put both hands on her hips.
“You did not tell me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“You’re telling me because I cornered you beside a goat trough.”
“Still counts.”
She stared another moment.
Then smiled.
“How big?”
Ethan hesitated.
“If it works?”
“Yes.”
“Two hundred pounds a week.”
Grace stopped smiling.
“That is not possible.”
“Currently.”
“You make seventy.”
“Eighty-two last week.”
“Still.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the goats.
“We would need more milk.”
“Yes.”
“More goats.”
“Yes.”
“More refrigeration.”