“I’m sorry for your loss. How old were you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I was twelve.”

Thankfully, before Carlos delves further into family history, Latonya arrives to take our orders. Once we’re alone again, Carlos clears his throat. “You know that having roots in a community makes you a more effective extension agent, right?”

Busying myself with stirring sugar into my coffee, I nod.

“Then why didn’t you request an assignment in eastern New York in the first place?”

Before I can let out a frustrated groan, Gomer noses my hand, and I remember to take a deep breath before answering. “The problem with growing up here is that everybody—including my family—sees me as the nerdy kid who may have won all the science fairs, but also never buttoned his shirt right.”

“Seems like you’ve got that problem figured out.” Carlos’ gaze tracks to my shirt front, and I run a hand up my chest to check the buttons, before I remember that I’m wearing a CCE polo.

Pushing my glasses back up my nose, I cough out a laugh as bitter as the coffee Latonya poured us. “Nobody around here’s going to listen to my advice, not when my family’s farm is failing.”

“Every farm has its challenges. Especially small ones.”

“How about seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of debt?”

Carlos blanches. “That is… a challenge.”

“Even worse, they’re growing soybeans. Monoculture. Stripping the soil and sinking cash into fertilizer and pesticides year after year.”

“Did you suggest small grains or maybe hay as an alternative?”

“Yes, Carlos, I’m not an idiot,” I snap. Gomer whines, and I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry. This gets me all kinds of riled up. I knew the farm was headed for trouble, even when I was in undergrad. But my grandfather wouldn’t listen to me.”

Carlos nods. “That’s tough.”

“Worse, now my older brother Ethan’s equally resistant to change.” I roll my eyes. “At least he was until his girlfriend blew back into town with her grand ideas. Now they’re growing strawberries.”

Before Carlos can say anything further, Latonya shows up with our sandwiches. We eat in silence until I can’t take it anymore. “So do you see why it’s a terrible idea for me to work here?”

Carlos wipes his mouth carefully and folds his hands on the table in front of him before meeting my gaze. “That isn’t the only reason you’re being considered for a move.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“As you know, CCE likes to rotate new hires through a few different regions for the first year or so. But your supervisor out in Erie County had some frustrations with your work, and I was the only team leader interested in mentoring you.”

“Are you serious?” Shame has my face heating. My hand instinctively finds Gomer, fingers sliding through his fur.

Carlos nods, his expression grave. “Your passion is appreciated, but your attitude is a problem. You can’t goad people into doing things differently.”

“Is this because of that sweet corn grower in Springville with Stewart’s wilt?” I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest. “All I told him was the truth, and he got pissed off.”

“Let me guess.” Carlos mimics my posture. “You told him we haven’t yet developed varieties resistant to the disease.”

“Exactly. Climate change is real. Things are changing fast. You have to adapt to survive.” The farmer’s angry face surfaces in my memory. “I told him about grant programs for solar farming as an alternative.”

“We’re talking about people’s entire lives, son. Their family history. You must get it.”

“Oh, I totally get stubbornness and refusal to try new things.”

“In their minds, change is a risk.”

“Not changing is a bigger risk.”

“Traditions as old as these hills can’t just be uprooted. A farmer coming to us for guidance is a great first step. We have to respect their experience.”

“What do I do if they refuse to look forward? If they insist that this is the way we’ve always done things. This worked in the past. Well, buddy, research tells me that ain’t gonna work anymore.”

“Change takes money, effort and knowledge. We can provide the latter, and often some funding, but they’ve got to be ready, willing and able to put in the elbow grease. Which isn’t always the case.”

“What am I supposed to do differently, then?”

“Join my team. Tag along with me for the first couple weeks.”

“So you can confirm that I’m a problem child?” I snap back.

“Is that what you think you are?”

Feeling like I’m repeating the same mistakes over and over in my life, I avoid answering his question. Instead, I take another bite of my sandwich, which now feels like sandpaper in my mouth. After I labor through chewing and swallowing, something occurs to me. “Do I actually have a choice in the matter?”

“You could be reassigned to the central office in Ithaca, but you wouldn’t be working directly with farmers. You’d probably assist with research instead.” Before I can ask more about that, Carlos leans forward, resting folded hands on the table. “Look. Roger told me you’re the smartest he’s got. I think we can learn from each other. Plus, I’m not getting any younger. My job’ll be opening up in a few years. This district is your best shot for moving up.”

Something’s not right here. “If I’m so difficult, why would you even consider me to replace you?”

He snorts. “I’m too old to be intimidated by you, and I actually think we’d be a good team. You’re up on all the latest and greatest, while I’ve got experience dealing with recalcitrant farmers.”

“Want to meet my brother?”

He tips his head to the side, a shaggy eyebrow lifting. “Maybe he’ll listen to me. Sometimes fresh eyes and ears are helpful.”

I cough-laugh, coffee going up my nose.

Carlos hands me an extra napkin. “What’s so funny?”

Wiping my mouth, I clear my throat. I don’t think Carlos is as old as my grandmother, but the crow’s-feet crinkling the terra-cotta skin surrounding his eyes are as deep as hers. “No offense, but… you’re not exactly the epitome of fresh.”

Carlos actually harrumphs. “I’ve still got game, son.”

I don’t want to know what that looks like, especially after the way he and Latonya were making eyes at each other. Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell or, rather, the Elton John song “Daniel” that my twin sister made her ringtone. I send her to voicemail, but if I don’t text her, she’ll worry. “Sorry, that’s my sister,” I explain to Carlos. “I’ll just let her know I’m not dead.”

Me: Can’t talk rn, whassup

Colleen: Are you in town?

Me: 👍