Something's wrong.
The packets are damp. Not just humid-damp. Wet-damp. Like something leaked or condensation built up during transport.
I kneel beside the crate, pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
Wet seeds can mold. Moldy seeds can contaminate entire lots. If this strain is compromised, if the mold spreads to other varieties in the crate, we could lose months of work. Years of carefully maintained genetics.
My hands shake as I lift the first packet.
The paper's soggy. When I open it, the familiar smell of tomato seeds is wrong. Musty. Off.
No no no no no.
I check the next packet. Same. The next. The next.
Twelve packets. My entire stock of Purple Cherokee. The strain my mother developed over fifteen seasons before she got too sick to garden. The strain I've protected and propagated and promised to keep alive.
All of it contaminated.
My vision tunnels. The noise of the seed swap fades to white static.
I can't breathe right. Can't think past the immediate horror of what this means.
The farmers who were counting on these seeds for spring planting. The people who've been waiting years for a chance at this particular variety because it's drought-resistant and produces late into fall when other strains fail.
The promise I made to my mother. Keep them going. Don't let them disappear.
"Ivy?"
Rogan's voice. Distant. I can't look up from the ruined seeds in my hands.
"Ivy, what's wrong?"
"Contaminated," I manage. "The whole lot. Mold. I must have... I don't know what happened. I was so careful. I'm always careful."
He kneels beside me. I can feel him there but I can't stop staring at the packets.
"Can they be saved?" he asks quietly.
"No. Once mold takes hold in seeds this old, they're done. Any attempt to grow them risks spreading disease to healthy plants." My voice sounds hollow. Clinical. "Complete loss."
"How many people were expecting these?"
"Seven farmers. Plus the school garden program. And me." I finally look at him. "This was the last strain my mother developed. Before she died. I've kept it going for seventeen years and I just destroyed it in one morning because I didn't check the crate properly before transport."
"You didn't destroy anything. Sometimes things just fail."
"Not my things. Not with seeds. I don't fail with seeds."
But here I am. Failing.
The implications cascade through my mind like dominoes. The farmers who'll have to find replacement varieties that won't perform as well in our climate. The lost genetic diversity. The broken promise to my mother, to myself, to the community that trusts me to preserve what matters.
Around us, the seed swap continues. People laughing. Trading. Building the future one packet at a time.
And I'm kneeling on the floor holding the ruins of my past.
"Come on," Rogan says gently. "Let's get these into the kitchen. Away from the other seeds. We'll figure this out."
