Back above ground, I rig a crude gravity system with salvaged tubing. I plant cheap seeds: beans, squash, radishes. Fast growers. Reliable.
Lily makes crooked cardboard signs for each row.
Every green shoot feels like a victory.
Months pass. I barter herbs for eggs. Fix a neighbor’s radio for cornmeal. People begin helping without calling it charity. Mrs. Alvarez drops off clothes. The mechanic trades a solar panel for weeding.
Trades are dignity.
The first time I sell produce at the farmer’s market, I feel rich—even though it’s barely enough to fill a jar.
Then, one afternoon, my hoe strikes metal near the old shed.
Buried beneath soil is a sealed drum. Inside are preserved tobacco seeds and a plastic-wrapped notebook filled with crop rotations, irrigation plans, and vendor contacts.
Tucked in the back is a card:
SunCoast Organics — Buyer.
Organic buyers pay more.
That night, I salvage an old broken laptop from a closet. I fix it with borrowed parts and stubbornness. When it flickers to life, it feels like a new sunrise.
I teach myself certification rules, supply chains, branding.
A greenhouse goes up. A compost system hums. Chickens lay eggs.
The land becomes alive.