“Some.”
The farmer walked closer.
He examined them.
Then looked across the rest.
“That’s it?”
“So far.”
His expression hardened.
“What are you spraying?”
“Same approved program as before.”
“Frequency?”
She told him.
His eyebrows rose.
“Less than us.”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
The Farm Woman crouched beside a plant.
She lifted one leaf.
“Feel underneath.”
The farmer touched it.
Dry.
She pointed toward his field.
“Go check yours.”
“It rained yesterday.”
“Exactly.”
“Mine’s dry.”
“Yours?”
The farmer did not answer.
He left.
An hour later, he returned.
His face had changed.
“Still wet.”
The Farm Woman nodded.
“Dense canopy.”
“Tighter rows.”
“Less airflow.”
“That can’t make that much difference.”
“Maybe it doesn’t.”
The farmer frowned.
She continued.
“Could be genetics too.”
He stared at the plants.
“Those old seeds?”
“Possibly.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
He looked almost irritated.
“You’ve been telling everybody you know.”
The Farm Woman stood.
“No.”
“You’ve been telling everybody I’m testing.”
The distinction bothered him.
She could see that.
He wanted certainty.
Certainty was easier to fight.
Testing was harder.
The farmer looked across the field again.
“If those plants stay clean through August, I’ll believe something.”
The Farm Woman nodded.
“Good.”
He left.
By mid-July, the difference became obvious.
Her family’s straight nursery rows suffered heavily.
Nearly a third of the plants showed significant symptoms.
Some stopped producing normally.
A few collapsed.
The saved-seed section remained vigorous.
Not untouched.
Several leaves showed lesions.
A few plants needed pruning.
But the disease moved slowly.
The canopy remained green.
Fruit developed.
The Farm Woman documented everything.
Photographs.
Dates.
Rainfall.
Spacing.
Spray timing.
Disease severity.
Her brother found her one night entering data at the kitchen table.
“You’re making a spreadsheet.”
“Yes.”
“For tomatoes.”
“Yes.”
He opened the refrigerator.
“This family used to be normal.”
“No.”
“We were never normal.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“How bad is Dad’s section?”
“Thirty-five percent symptomatic.”
“And yours?”
“Seven.”