He laughed.
Then I said, “Fuel the Case.”
Silence.
“Our corn’s still at twenty percent.”
“Check it again.”
“You thinking north field?”
“Every acre.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
There was another pause.
Tyler knew me well enough not to ask whether I was sure.
“Okay.”
Then I added, “Bring the grain cart.”
Behind me, Trish was already calling someone.
Her voice carried across the lane.
“We need an emergency injunction.”
I almost admired the confidence.
Almost.
For generations, my family had made a living by understanding one simple truth.
Weather doesn’t negotiate.
Markets don’t apologize.
Land remembers everything.
Land remembers every fence line.
Land remembers every buried pipe.
Land remembers every hand that worked it.
Land remembers who stayed when everyone else wanted to sell.
Land remembers who owns it when strangers start pretending otherwise.
By 4:40 that afternoon, Tyler pulled the Case IH combine from the machine barn.
Red paint.
