The bank officer in Meade, Mr. Halvorsen, was less sentimental. He examined her financial statement, looked at the modest collateral she could offer, and asked whether she had considered the possibility that the poultry scheme might fail. Vera told him she had considered it so often she had begun dreaming in columns of figures. She showed him the college's written terms, Martha's invoices, the hatch records, and her projections under several different sales outcomes. He remained doubtful, but the paperwork gave him something concrete to evaluate instead of a rumor about blue chickens.
"You know what I worry about?" he asked.
"That I'm buying land with eggs that haven't been laid."
"Exactly."
"Then we have the same worry. I'd like you to tell me whether the payment schedule survives if only half the qualifying birds are accepted."
He worked through the numbers with her, at first reluctantly and then with the concentration of someone who had found an unfamiliar but legitimate business problem. The final plan involved a restrained down payment, a purchase note carrying the balance, and provisions for paying ahead without penalty. The figures were tight, and the loan was no act of charity. Vera left knowing she had been treated as a borrower whose proposal could stand or fail on evidence, and after years of being advised to sell the farm because she was a woman alone, that felt like a victory of its own.
On the first Monday in January she traveled to the Henderson place with Daniel, not as a prospective partner but as a second pair of eyes who understood buildings and soil. The old house smelled of dust and cold wood, its shutters rattling in the breeze, and the barn roof held several places that would need attention before a growing flock could be moved inside. Daniel tapped the posts with the handle of his hammer and examined the rafters while Vera counted water sources, studied the drainage, and measured the distance between the barn and the creek. She found problems everywhere, and with every problem she found herself wanting the property a little more.
The creek was low, a narrow ribbon winding between banks worn down by decades of hooves and storms. Yet water still moved beneath the ice at the edges, and the bottomland held a darker soil than the higher wheat fields. Vera crouched beside it and let a handful of earth crumble across her palm. She imagined planting feed here, keeping a small flock of ducks along the water, and using the barn for birds that would otherwise crowd the Aldren buildings. None of it existed yet, but she could see the sequence of work necessary to make it real.
"Well?" Daniel asked when they returned to the truck.
"It needs more work than I hoped."
"That's true."
"The roof can wait until we secure the east side, but the water line can't. The grain room will need a better floor."
"Also true."
She looked back at the barn. "I still want it."
"I thought you might."