Casey wrote down every caution. She had heard enough stories about sudden environmental windfalls to distrust anyone who made the process sound simple. The specialist suggested a site assessment by someone who understood both wetland ecology and the mitigation approval process, then advised her to keep monitoring without changing the drainage or moving soil while the cause of the flooding remained contested. Doing work prematurely could damage evidence, affect permits, and make a difficult situation much worse.
"So the first step is not to do anything dramatic," Casey said.
"The first step is to find out exactly what you have," the specialist replied. "Then you can ask what may be lawful and useful."
At supper, Casey told Warren the result of the call. He listened until she reached the part about surveys, verification, management plans, and no guarantees. Then he leaned back and said that, apparently, he now owned a lake of ruined soybeans and a future full of paperwork.
Casey laughed despite herself. "I didn't say it was a solution," she reminded him. "I said it might be something worth studying."
"People have been studying my land all spring," Warren said. "Every time they do, another person wants a piece of it."
She let the complaint pass. The truth was that she worried about the same thing. If the wetland assessment did reveal an opportunity, she knew experts, investors, and developers would arrive with contracts Warren might not fully understand. She also knew his instinct would be to reject all of them, including the ones who might actually help.
Two days later, a man named Odell Marsh called the farmhouse. He had been given Casey's name by a former colleague who knew her fieldwork and understood why she was asking careful questions rather than advertising eighty acres of instant credit value. Odell was a private wetland specialist in his early sixties, with silver hair, a patient voice, and a reputation for turning away clients who wanted him to certify conclusions before examining the ground. He asked whether they would be willing to show him the records before he agreed to any further work.
He arrived in an old green utility vehicle with mud on the fenders and a clipboard worn soft at the edges. Warren met him outside with the guarded courtesy reserved for people who might send a bill after explaining that the situation was complicated. Odell did not begin with a contract. He began by asking Casey to show him where water entered the field, where it remained, and where it had once gone.
They walked for hours. Odell photographed plants, examined soil from accessible edges, and asked about the land's history while Casey showed him fixed-point photographs and measurements. He was particularly interested in the old drainage maps and the 1959 photograph. When Warren mentioned that his father had spent decades improving the fields, Odell asked what the word improving had meant in practical terms.