He stepped from his cruiser, adjusted his hat, and stared at the tents.
“What in God’s name happened here?”
“You buy
tickets?”
He looked at me.
Then laughed.
“I saw the Facebook ad. Thought you’d finally lost your mind.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
His laughter stopped.
I showed him the document.
Then the signature.
Then the date.
Ben read it twice.
“You were overseas then.”
“Yep.”
He looked toward Cedar Ridge.
“You want to make a report?”
“Absolutely.”
“You want them removed?”
“Yes, but carefully. Vendors can collect equipment. Volunteers can leave. Nobody touches farm machinery or crop.”
He nodded.
“I’ll call another unit.”
Then he looked at the maze.
“You really harvesting this?”
I checked the moisture reading Tyler had texted me.
18.2 percent.
Close enough.
“Every stalk.”
At 5:09, the first row disappeared.
The combine header swallowed corn that somebody had marked as ENTRANCE.
Dry stalks snapped beneath the rollers.
