Dale looked at Walt for a long moment and said, “Fifty-two thousand a year, a house with a furnace that works, and a written contract.” Walt flinched as if struck. “Per person,” Dale added gently. “Your son and his wife run this farm better than anyone I have met in forty years, and I would be a fool to pay them less.” Ben stood very still beside the pickup, and I felt my pulse in my ears. Walt looked at his cap, then at us, then at the ground.

“I did not know,” he said quietly. “I never did the math, Hannah. You did the books.” He turned to me, and his eyes were wet. “I thought you and Ben stayed because you loved the land, and I let myself believe that was payment enough.” Across the road, the screen door of the farmhouse banged open, and Carol hurried toward us in her slippers, clutching a worn leather ledger against her chest.