They sat in silence for a while. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the snow-covered fields and shades of pink and gold. The house was quiet except for the ticking of the clock and Daisy's soft breathing from her bed by the fireplace. Finally, Hannah said, "Thank you. I don't know how to say it properly, but thank you."
Tom smiled. "Don't thank me yet. We've still got work to do.
The next 48 hours were a blur of phone calls, paperwork, and coffee consumed at increasingly desperate rates. Tom made calls, dozens of them. He spoke to people at USDA regional offices, at the Treasury Department, at the Iowa Department of Agriculture and Land Stewardship. He spoke to his former colleagues in Washington, calling in favors accumulated over three decades of government service.
He filled out forms, requested waivers, cited obscure regulations that Hannah had never heard of, and suspected most people hadn't either. He barely slept. Hannah made pot after pot of coffee and sandwiches that Tom ate without tasting, his attention fixed on the laptop screen, or the phone pressed to his ear. She watched this man, this stranger who had stumbled into her life by accident, fight for her with the ferocity of someone fighting for family.
On the second day, reality hit a wall. Tom was on the phone with someone in Washington. Hannah could only hear his side of the conversation, but it clearly wasn't going well. "Ellen, I understand your concerns, but no, I'm not bypassing proper channels.
I'm using discretionary powers explicitly granted for emergencies. Time is a factor. In three days this farm will be foreclosed on and a young farmer will lose everything her family built for. I don't care if it sets a precedent. Maybe we need a precedent. Maybe we need to actually help people instead of just studying them. No,
I'm not being emotional. I'm being practical. He listened for a long moment, his face growing tighter, then put it to a vote—emergency committee tonight. "Yes," I know it's irregular. Everything about this is irregular.
That's the point. Fine, I'll be on the call at 8, but Ellen, I'm not backing down on this. He hung up and sat back in the chair, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Problem? Hannah asked, though the answer was obvious.
The deputy secretary is pushing back. She says I'm overstepping, that I can't unilaterally approve emergency funding without committee review, that it looks like favoritism. He laughed without humor. She's not wrong technically, but sometimes you have to break the rules to do the right thing.
Tom, if this is going to damage your career. I don't care, he said flatly. I spent 30 years playing by the rules. And you know what it got me? An office full of reports about failing farms and farmers losing their land and not one damn thing actually fixed.
So, if breaking the rules means saving one farm, saving one person who actually deserves help, then I'll break them.
That evening at 8:00, Tom sat in front of his laptop for a video conference call. Hannah stayed in the kitchen giving him space, but she could hear everything through the thin walls. Tom, we need to talk about the Iowa situation. A woman's voice, crisp and professional. Ellen, I'm aware of your concerns.
Are you another voice, male, older? You approved emergency funding without committee review. You expedited a pilot program that was supposed to take 6 months to launch. You're using discretionary powers in a way they were never intended to be used.
I'm using them exactly as they were intended to help farmers in crisis. To help one specific farmer. Ellen corrected, "Tom, we have thousands of applications. Why does this one get special treatment? Is it because you personally spent the night at her farm?"
The room went silent. Hannah held her breath. When Tom spoke again, his voice was ice. I chose this farm because I saw firsthand what we're up against.
The banks won't lend to young farmers. The co-ops are underfunded. We spend millions on studies and reports and policy proposals, but we don't actually help anyone. So, yes, I made a decision. I chose one farm to be the pilot for a program that could help thousands, and I'd make that choice again. "Tom—" Ellen started.
"Let me finish." Hannah Whitmore is 28 years old. She's been farming alone since her father died 3 years ago. She's kept this operation running through a pandemic, through drought, through medical debt that would have bankrupted most people.
She's training other young farmers. She's using sustainable practices. She's exactly the kind of person we should be supporting. So, if you want to vote this down, fine, put it to a vote.
But understand that you're not just foreclosing on one farm. You're sending a message that we don't actually care about the people we're supposed to serve. Another long silence, then a third voice, also male, speaking slowly. What exactly are you proposing? Tom outlined his plan.
Emergency assistance to cover the outstanding debt. A 5-year support program providing technical assistance, access to better equipment, and connection to markets, making the Whitmore Farm a demonstration site for sustainable practices that other young farmers could learn from. It's not a handout, Tom said. It's an investment and it's a model we can replicate across the country.
And if it fails, Ellen asked. Then it fails, but at least we tried. At least we did something besides watch good people lose everything. The committee talked for another hour. Hannah couldn't follow all of it.
Technical language, budget concerns, procedural questions, but she heard the moment things shifted. The moment when opposition turned to reluctant consideration and then to cautious support. Finally, Ellen spoke. All right, Tom. You win.
"But if this program fails, it's on you—your reputation, your legacy, everything."
"I know," Tom said. "I can live with that."