That's how this works. After she hung up, Hannah sat on the porch steps and realized something. This wasn't just about her anymore. What Tom had done, what they had done together, had opened a door for other people.
People who were struggling just like she had been. People who needed someone to believe in them. That thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. Meanwhile, in Washington, D.C., Tom Reed sat in a conference room on the third floor of the USDA building.
Across from him were three senior officials, and none of them were smiling. "Tom," said Ellen Vargas, the deputy secretary, folding her hands on the table. We need to talk about the fallout from your Iowa decision. Tom leaned back in his chair, keeping his expression neutral.
"What fallout? The media coverage was positive, very positive. But now we're getting calls from farmers all over the country asking why they weren't chosen, why this one young woman gets help when thousands of others don't. It's creating expectations we can't meet. "Good," Tom said.
"Maybe we should be meeting those expectations." Gerald Moss, the head of the Farm Service Agency, leaned forward. Tom, you approved emergency funding without proper committee review. You expedited a pilot program that was supposed to take 6 months to launch.
You set a precedent that's going to be very difficult to manage going forward. I use discretionary powers that are explicitly part of my role, Tom said calmly. Powers that exist specifically so we can respond to urgent situations without being strangled by red tape. "To help one farmer?" Gerald's voice rose slightly. Tom, we have thousands of applications, thousands of young farmers who need help.
Why does this one get special treatment? How do we justify that? Tom met his gaze evenly. "Because she was the first one I could actually help. And because if we don't start somewhere, if we keep saying there are too many people who need help, so we can't help anyone, then we'll never help anyone.
We'll just keep studying the problem until there are no farms left to save. Ellen rubbed her temples like she had a headache forming. Tom, I understand your intentions. I do, but this sets a precedent. Other farmers are already calling, demanding to know why they weren't chosen.
Some are threatening to sue for discrimination. It looks like favoritism. It looks like you helped this farmer because you personally spent the night at her farm. It's not favoritism, Tom said, his voice hardening. It's efficiency.
The program was always going to need a pilot site. I chose one that met every criteria we established. That's my job. That's what you pay me to do, make decisions. You chose one because you have a personal connection to her, Gerald said sharply.
That's the definition of a conflict of interest. Tom's jaw tightened. He'd known this was coming, had prepared for it, but it still stung. I chose one because I saw firsthand what we're up against.
Because I spent one night in that farmhouse and learned more about the real challenges facing young farmers than I've learned in 30 years of reading reports. The banks won't lend. The co-ops are underfunded. We talk about supporting young farmers, but we don't actually do anything substantive.
So yes, I made a decision and I'd make it again. The room fell silent. Tom could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the muffled sound of traffic from the street below. Finally, Ellen sighed. "Tom, if this program fails, it's on you, your reputation, your legacy, everything you've built here.
"I know," Tom said.
"And if it works?"
Tom allowed himself a small smile. "Then maybe we expand it. Maybe we actually start helping the people we're supposed to serve."
Maybe we remember why we got into this work in the first place. Ellen studied him for a long moment. Then she said, "You're betting everything on this." "Yes," I am. "Why?"
Tom thought about the farmhouse, the candlelight, the sound of a harmonica in the dark. He thought about Margaret, about the farm they never got to build, about second chances and the cost of regret. Because some bets are worth making, he said. Because sometimes the only way to change a system is to prove it can work differently.
And because that young woman saved my life, and I'm going to spend whatever political capital I have left making sure she doesn't lose hers.
That night, Tom sat alone in his apartment in Arlington. It was a modest place, one bedroom, minimal furniture, the kind of space that said its occupants spent most of their time at work. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and stood by the window looking out at the city lights. His phone buzzed. A text from Hannah saw the register article.
They're pushing back, aren't they? Your colleagues, he typed back a little. Nothing I can't handle. A pause then, Tom. I don't want you to lose your job because of me.
I'm not going to lose my job. And even if I did, it would be worth it. Another pause. Why are you really doing this? Tom looked at the photograph on his bookshelf.
Margaret, smiling sunlight in her hair, standing in front of a farmers market. She'd loved those markets. Loved talking to the farmers about their crops and their lives. She'd wanted to be one of them someday. He typed, "Because you gave me shelter when I needed it, and because my wife would have done the same thing."
The response came quickly: "She must have been an amazing person."