He thought about calling his brother in Missouri, but they hadn’t spoken in five years after an argument about money. He thought about asking the church for help, but they were already struggling to keep the lights on. He thought about taking out a payday loan, but the interest rates were predatory and would just dig him in deeper. Every path he considered led to the same place, losing the farm.
That night, Marcus lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the old house creak and settle around him. In the room down the hall, he could hear Alicia moving around, probably unable to sleep, either. Three years he’d managed to keep things together after Sarah died. Three years of working himself half to death, of careful budgeting and constant worry, and it was all going to fall apart, anyway.
He thought about Nathan’s offer to help and felt a fresh surge of anger at himself for refusing. Pride was expensive, apparently. Too expensive. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that taking Nathan’s money would have changed something fundamental about who Marcus was. He’d pulled that man from a burning car because it was right, not because he expected payment. The moment he accepted money for it, retroactively or otherwise, it became a transaction. And Marcus Hill didn’t sell his decency. Even if his decency cost him everything.
A week passed, then eight days, then nine. Marcus worked the remaining field like a man possessed, doing everything he could to maximize what was left. He called every buyer he knew, negotiating for the best prices. He sold off equipment he might need later, old tools and spare parts, anything that might bring in a few extra dollars. It wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.
On the ninth night, Marcus sat at the kitchen table with all the bills spread out in front of him, the final accounting of his failure. Alicia was in her room with the door closed. He could hear her crying softly, trying to muffle the sound so he wouldn’t hear. That was the worst part. Not his own failure, but the fact that his daughter was in there trying not to cry because she didn’t want to make him feel worse.
Marcus put his head in his hands and let himself feel it. All the grief and fear and exhaustion he’d been holding back for days. He thought about Sarah, wished more than anything that she was here to tell him what to do. She’d always been better at this, better at seeing solutions when all he could see were walls. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the empty kitchen, to her ghost or memory or whatever remained. “I tried. I swear I tried.”
The house was silent except for the ticking clock and Alicia’s muffled crying. Tomorrow Frank would come. Tomorrow Marcus would have to admit defeat. Tomorrow he’d start making calls about where they could stay, what he could afford for rent, how they’d manage with no assets and no prospects. Tomorrow everything changed.