“I can’t promise I’ll win.”
“Fair.”
Winter reduced Marcus’s shop hours.
Walter called him into the office.
“Three days.”
Marcus knew immediately.
“Trucking contracts?”
“Both gone.”
“For how long?”
“Spring hopefully.”
Walter looked miserable.
“I can carry you longer if—”
“No.”
“Marcus.”
“No.”
The farm was tied in court.
Attorney bills growing.
Savings gone.
Then the seeds failed.
Marcus selected kernels from Hollis White Dent.
Planted in pots of red clay from the lower field.
Watered.
Placed in the tin shed.
Nothing.
Two weeks.
He dug one up.
Soft.
Dark.
Rotten.
Another.
Same.
Another.
Same.
He stood in the cold holding dead-looking kernels in his palm.
Seventy-seven years.
Maybe the vault had protected paper and tools.
Seed was different.
Living tissue.
Time mattered.
Maybe Josiah’s greatest gift had arrived too late to be useful.
That night Marcus sat on the Farmall’s rear tire.
No lights.
Cold air.
He finally allowed himself to imagine Dale had been right.
Twelve thousand dollars.
Rock pile.
Court fight.
Dead seed.
A buried history incapable of paying current bills.
For the first time, Marcus did not know what the next step was.
Then Gerald Whitmore called.
Atlanta antiques dealer.
Thirty-five thousand dollars.
Seed sacks and tools.
Cash.
Marcus nearly stopped breathing.
Thirty-five thousand.
Pay Harold.
Pay Ruth.
Fix tractor.
Buy lime.
Build fencing.
Survive.
Whitmore said:
“Collectors care about provenance. Your documentation makes this especially attractive.”
Marcus looked toward the locked spare room.
“Even if the seeds are dead?”
“Historical value may be higher if unopened.”
That sentence bothered him.
Unopened.
Not planted.
Not used.
Displayed.
Owned.
Marcus asked for one night.
He opened the ledger.
Third page.
We do not bury this for ourselves.
We bury it for those who come after.
If hard times come…
Let this reserve give our people what they need to begin again.
He closed the book.
Ruth sat listening to radio.
He told her.
“Thirty-five thousand.”
“That is money.”
“I could pay you.”
“Don’t.”
“Grandma.”
“I didn’t lend it.”
“I said I would.”
“You said many things at nineteen.”
“What if the seeds are dead?”
Ruth looked toward the spare room.
“Then what are you selling?”
“History.”
“Whose?”
Marcus did not answer.
Ruth lowered her voice.
“Josiah did not seal those sacks so some rich man could put one under glass in Atlanta.”
That decided it.
Marcus called Whitmore.
“The reserve isn’t for sale.”