You watch the ground.
You keep moving.
At 8:12 p.m., we turned on the combine lights.
The field became a glowing tunnel of dust.
The HOA had paid a company to install hundreds of solar marker lights along the maze paths.
We collected every one before the machine reached it.
I stacked them beside the lane.
Nothing damaged unnecessarily.
Nothing thrown away.
Nothing they could call destruction except the corn itself.
And the corn belonged to me.
At 9:04, Trish returned for the third time.
This time she arrived alone.
No lawyer.
No volunteers.
She stood beside the field until I climbed down.
“You’ve made your point.”
“I’m harvesting.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“The elevator closes at midnight.”
She stared at me.
“Stop for twenty-four hours.”
“No.”
“We can compensate you.”
“For what?”
“The crop.”
“You already owe me for the crop you destroyed.”
“We’ll pay.”
“And trespass damage.”
