"My grandmother chose the edge, not the deep water," Clara said. "And the water recedes here first."
"Your grandmother's observations may be useful," he replied, "but they are not a substitute for testing."
"Then would you test it?"
Vance blinked. "Test what?"
"The soil. The water. The cuttings. If I'm wrong, tell me exactly how."
He looked from her to the row of bare branches and back again. For a moment Clara thought he might agree, and perhaps he did consider it. But he had come prepared to deliver caution rather than curiosity, and the opportunity to change course appeared to make him uncomfortable. He wrote a recommendation warning of poor drainage, prolonged inundation, and the possible introduction of diseased material, then handed her a copy. He emphasized that the document was advisory and that the county would have concerns if she moved unknown plant material into the creek itself.
"I haven't planted in the creek," Clara answered. "I've planted on my own bank."
"The distinction may matter legally," he said, "but it doesn't change my assessment of the growing conditions."
Clara folded the paper. She knew enough now to understand that he was not wrong about the risks, but she also knew that he had not checked whether the branches were viable. "I'll keep records," she said. "You're welcome to inspect them when you come back."
He gave a small impatient sigh. "I hope this doesn't cost you too much, Miss Jennings. There are easier ways to learn a lesson about land."
After his car vanished, Clara carried a stool to the kitchen table and entered the morning's details into a school notebook. She recorded the weather, the water depth near each row, the number of branches still standing, and the condition of the bark. At the top of the page she wrote: TREAT THIS AS A TEST, NOT A MIRACLE. She underlined it twice. The words were partly for Vance and mostly for herself.
April became a sequence of wet mornings, damp clothes, and the ordinary work needed to keep a forty-acre property from sliding toward ruin. Clara mended the porch, scraped peeling paint, and patched the roof around a chimney flashing with sheet metal Ben found for her. She cleaned the old apple trees of dead wood and placed a notice at the feed store offering to help with mending, bookkeeping, and household errands after her shifts at the dime store. Some people hired her because they felt sorry for her. She took their money anyway and made certain the work was done well enough that pity would not be required a second time.
At the five-and-dime, her supervisor, Mrs. Larkin, asked whether the stories about the field were true. Clara said they were, though the word "forest" had apparently grown around town until it was much larger than the handful of rows she had planted.