Snow buried the hillside.
The Young Woman worked part-time at a veterinary supply store because garlic did not pay bills while sleeping underground.
Every morning before work she checked the hill.
Nothing visible.
Every evening after work she repaired the barn.
January.
February.
March.
Then one morning she found a green point pushing through straw.
She crouched.
Touched it.
Garlic.
By the end of the week, hundreds appeared.
Rows slowly turned green.
Seven hundred fifty-six emerged.
The Young Woman counted.
Twenty-four missing.
She marked them.
Not terrible.
But not perfect.
The Old Farmer appeared on a warm afternoon.
He looked across the rows.
“More came up than I expected.”
The Young Woman smiled.
“Careful.”
“That almost sounded like praise.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Good.”
He stepped into the field.
She immediately pointed toward the path.
“Walk there.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Not between plants.”
“I know how to walk in a field.”
“Then this should be easy.”
He rolled his eyes but used the path.
He crouched beside a plant.
“Purple stripe?”
“Yes.”
“Hardneck?”
“Yes.”
“Not what people grow around here.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Cold enough for it.”
“Restaurants like it.”
“Stores don’t.”
“I’m not growing for stores.”
The Old Farmer stood.
“There’s your problem.”
“No.”
“That’s my plan.”
He stared at the hillside.
For the first time, he looked less amused.
“Seven hundred fifty?”
“Seven hundred fifty-six.”
“You counted?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
She smiled.
Spring accelerated.
Green leaves thickened.
The Young Woman weeded by hand.
Then with a small cultivator.
Then by hand again where the cultivator could not reach safely.
She brewed compost extract in old barrels.
She added a thin application of finished compost between rows.
Not too much.
Garlic could be overfed.
The Old Farmer criticized that too.
“You’re feeding dirt more carefully than most people feed cattle.”
“Dirt is cheaper than cattle.”
He almost smiled.
Then May became difficult.
Rust-colored spots appeared on one row.
The Young Woman found them at six in the morning.
Her stomach turned.
Fungal disease could spread quickly.
One bad outbreak could destroy the crop.
She photographed leaves.
Called extension.
Sent samples.
Waited.
For three days, she imagined losing everything.
The Old Farmer arrived while she was pulling suspicious plants.
“What happened?”
“Could be rust.”
His expression changed.
Not mocking.
Serious.
“Bad?”
“Don’t know.”
He crouched beside her.
“Your airflow is good.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t irrigate tonight.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You sprayed copper?”
“I’m waiting for diagnosis.”
He nodded.
Then paused.
“You want my sprayer?”
She looked at him.