That night, he stayed up late flipping through Marianne’s old notes, trying to figure out what was wrong with the vines—why the yield had dropped. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat, the soil, or his own inexperience.
“I should’ve asked more questions,” he muttered in the dark. “I should’ve learned from her when I had the chance.” The next morning, he walked the rows and stopped cold. A dozen fresh footprints, one snapped row, and a vine that looked like someone had tripped over it.