Roy nodded as if he understood that sentence in ways that had nothing to do with corn. He was about to climb back into his truck when he stopped and looked toward the old crib. "My grandfather knew Silas," he said. "Used to say the old man could read a field before it got sick. Maybe there was something to it."
"Maybe," Callie said. "I'm trying to find out what."
Later that week, Nathaniel Bragg stopped his pickup at the fence. He had driven past the north plot twice without getting out, but the third time he left the truck on the shoulder and walked far enough to see the difference in color between the two test stands. He stood there with his hat in his hand for several minutes. Callie watched him from the barn door without making any move to invite him farther.
When she finally approached, he asked whether the strain was performing as well as it appeared. She told him exactly what Marianne had said, including the limitations and the small scale of the evidence. Bragg listened more carefully than most people who had heard about the patch, because he understood what a promising result might mean without needing to be told that a single year was not proof of a reliable commercial advantage.
"I'd like my seed manager to see it," he said. "With your permission."
"I'll think about it." Callie rested one arm along the fence rail. "And I'll want any visit documented. No samples taken without me approving them."
Bragg looked at her, then at the field. "You've become cautious."
"I was cautious before. Just not cautious enough about the right things."
He accepted the answer and went back to his truck. This time, Callie did not feel small while watching him drive away. The farm's financial problems remained enormous, and the green patch did not change the debt on her irrigation pivot. But she understood something Bragg had apparently understood sooner: the old seed was worth examining, and the choice of who would be allowed to examine it now belonged to her.
The next person to stop was a reporter from the Maro County Ledger. Her name was Claire Benton, and she arrived carrying a notebook, an old camera, and the careful expression of somebody who understood that farm families did not appreciate strangers arriving to turn complicated lives into simple inspirational stories. She had heard about the north plot from Odessa, who had apparently decided the discovery deserved to be recorded beyond the walls of her spare room. Claire asked whether she could visit before writing anything.
Callie almost refused. A story in the paper could attract useful expertise, but it could also attract people who expected her to produce a miracle she had not promised. Eli, overhearing the conversation, said that it might help to have a public record of what they found and when they found it. Callie looked at him and realized he had been listening when Helen Carver talked about provenance.