The wetland taught a parallel lesson.
Value did not always announce itself in familiar units.
For decades the low ground had been measured in bushels, input costs, and yield. Those were legitimate measures. But they were not universal measures. Once the land was evaluated for hydrology, habitat, water storage, ecological restoration, and regulated mitigation value, another ledger appeared.
Neither ledger made the other false.
The mistake had been believing only one existed.
On the tenth anniversary of the flood, Casey proposed a small family dinner. Warren objected to calling it an anniversary.
"People celebrate weddings. Not drainage disputes."
"We're not celebrating the flood."
"Then why are we eating pie?"
"Because you like pie."
"That's a better reason."
After supper they walked to the wetland with two folding chairs. Warren moved more slowly now and accepted Casey's arm on uneven ground without pretending he did not need it. The evening was warm, and insects moved above the water in the last light.
They sat where the original soybean rows had disappeared beneath two feet of brown water.
For a while neither spoke.
"Ten years," Casey said.
Warren nodded.
"You ever think about what would've happened if the water drained after three days?"
"I'd have replanted."
"And if Gerald never came that morning?"
"Might've trusted him longer."
"If I hadn't started taking pictures?"
Warren looked at her. "Don't fish for compliments."
"I'm asking."
He watched a heron lift from the far edge.
"Then maybe Renata has less to work with. Maybe Odell never hears about us. Maybe I sell eighty acres to get the bank off my back. Maybe the developer owns this whole edge by now."
Casey was quiet.