Clover and flattened residue covered the surface.
Morning dew clung beneath leaves even after the roadside grass had dried.
He drove on.
That afternoon he returned with the three farmers who had laughed before.
This was the confrontation where he tore up the clover.
By then, he was not mocking because he was certain she was wrong.
He was mocking because he was beginning to fear she might be right.
The crop inspector arrived while they were still arguing.
His county pickup stopped beside the fence.
The Young Farm Woman recognized him immediately.
He carried a tablet and a folding knife.
The Older Farmer stepped toward him.
“Here to admire the flower patch?”
The inspector ignored the joke.
“Checking drought conditions.”
He walked into the Young Farm Woman’s field.
Opened an ear.
Counted kernels.
Examined leaves.
Checked the soil.
Then crossed into the Older Farmer’s field.
His expression changed.
The Older Farmer saw.
“What?”
The inspector cut another plant.
“Stress is worse over here.”
“That’s obvious.”
“I mean development.”
He checked another.
The Older Farmer folded his arms.
“How bad?”
“Too early to estimate final loss.”
“Then don’t.”
The inspector looked toward him.
“I’m telling you what I see.”
The Young Farm Woman remained quiet.
The inspector walked toward her field again.
“What are your moisture readings?”
She showed him.
He scrolled through the log.
“How long you been recording?”
“Third season.”
He stopped.
“Three years?”
“Yes.”
“Same locations?”
“Mostly.”
He looked impressed.
The Older Farmer looked irritated.
The Young Farm Woman led the inspector to the buried sensor.
She lifted it.
The reading remained within the range she expected.
Not wet.
Not abundant.
Alive.
The Older Farmer stepped closer.
“That could be one spot.”
“It is.”
The Young Farm Woman pointed toward the rows.
“I have eleven.”
The inspector looked toward her.
“All logged?”
“Yes.”
The Older Farmer shook his head.
“Doesn’t prove clover did it.”
“No.”
The Young Farm Woman agreed immediately.
That answer stopped him.
She continued.
“Reduced tillage changed too.”
“Residue changed.”
“Infiltration changed.”
“Plant population changed slightly.”
“I’m not claiming one thing.”
The Older Farmer stared.
He had prepared to fight certainty.
Her caution gave him nothing to attack.
Then she walked toward an old wooden stake half hidden in the clover.
She pulled it up.
A rusted metal tag hung near the bottom.
The inspector wiped soil from it.
Faded handwriting appeared.
Date.
Block number.
Trial note.
The Older Farmer’s expression changed before anyone spoke.
He recognized the handwriting.
The Young Farm Woman noticed.
“You’ve seen this.”
He looked away.
She stepped closer.
“You knew about the trial.”
The other farmers looked toward him.