The field no longer cracked except in the far western section outside most root zones.
One morning, Clara discovered mushrooms beneath three trees.
She laughed aloud.
Mushrooms in land everyone described as dead clay.
Vance came to see them and became more excited than seemed reasonable.
“Fungal activity.”
“Mr. Vance, you warned me about fungus in April.”
“Not all fungi are pathogens.”
“That is convenient.”
“This is different.”
“Everything is different when you discover it after telling me not to do it.”
He gave her a stern look that failed because he was smiling.
They collected samples.
The county’s first real request came from Mrs. Phelps.
She arrived on a Tuesday morning with no basket, no eggs, and no attempt at casual conversation.
Clara knew something was wrong immediately.
Mrs. Phelps stood on the porch twisting a white handkerchief between both hands.
“My north pasture is gone,” she said.
Clara pulled out a chair.
Mrs. Phelps remained standing.
“The grass is brown down to the roots. Creek’s dry. When rain comes back, if it comes hard after all this, I’m afraid the bank will wash. Evelyn always said bare ground after drought goes fast.”
Clara nodded.
“She wrote that.”
“I know.”
Mrs. Phelps looked toward the grove.
“I came to ask something I would have laughed at in April.”
Clara waited.
“Do you have any of those sticks left?”
“No.”
Mrs. Phelps’s face fell.
“But I can make some.”
The older woman blinked.
“From these trees?”
“Grandmother wrote how.”
Clara brought Evelyn’s note from the kitchen drawer.
On the back, below the planting instructions, another line continued in smaller script:
In autumn, after new wood firms, cut straight growth. Twelve inches for ordinary planting. Longer for wet bank. Soak if ground is dry. Push deep. Do not baby them.
Mrs. Phelps read it.
Her mouth trembled into a smile.
“That sounds like Evelyn.”
They walked into the grove with pruning shears.
Clara selected straight young shoots carefully.
She had been reluctant to cut anything from trees that felt miraculous, but Evelyn’s note made the purpose clear. The grove was not meant to remain singular.
It was meant to multiply.
Fifty cuttings came from the first pruning.
Clara tied them into five bundles.
Mrs. Phelps touched the twine.
“How much?”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
“You fed me half the spring.”
“That was neighbor business.”
“So is this.”
Mrs. Phelps looked at her for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“All right.”
Clara went with her to the dry creek bed.