"There's nothing to figure out. They're gone."
"Then we'll figure out what happens next."
He helps me stand. Carries the crate while I follow on numb legs. The kitchen is quiet after the noise of the swap. Clean and organized and everything in its place.
Unlike my carefully maintained seed library, apparently.
I set the contaminated packets in front of us. Stare at them like looking hard enough will reverse the mold, rewind the clock, let me check the crate one more time before leaving the greenhouse this morning.
"How long did your mother work on this strain?" Rogan asks.
"Fifteen years. Cross-pollinating. Selecting for specific traits. Drought resistance, late production, flavor." I touch one of the ruined packets. "She used to say these tomatoes were her love letter to the future. Something that would keep growing after she couldn't anymore."
"And you kept them going."
"Until now."
"Seventeen years isn't 'until now.' That's seventeen years of success. Seventeen seasons of keeping a promise." He moves closer. "One bad morning doesn't erase that."
"It does if this was the only viable seed stock left."
It hits me again. Not just the loss of seeds but the loss of possibility. Every plant that won't grow from these genetics. Every farmer who won't benefit from their resilience. Every season that will pass without this particular strain contributing to the local ecosystem.
All because I didn't check thoroughly enough before transport.
"Do you have backup stock?" Rogan asks. "Somewhere else?"
"I distributed most of it last year because the seeds were getting old. Needed fresh growing cycles." I press my palms over the counter. "I kept these as my personal stock. For emergency distribution and my own planting. I thought I was being responsible. Thought I was managing the resource correctly."
"You were. You are."
"Clearly not."
He stills. "How many seeds in a packet?"
"Depends. Thirty to fifty for tomatoes usually."
"So across twelve packets, you had..."
"Maybe five hundred seeds. Give or take."
"And you need how many to restart the strain?"
I see where he's going. Feel the tiny, impossible spark of hope.
"One. Technically you only need one viable seed to continue a line if you're willing to do very careful selection and accept some genetic bottleneck." I grasp a packet. Carefully open it. "But the odds of finding even one viable seed in this mess..."
"Are better than zero."
"Marginally."
"Then we look. Tonight. After everyone leaves. We sort through every single seed and find the ones that aren't contaminated."
"That could take hours. You have service. Prep for the Foundation catering."
"Maya can handle service. The Foundation prep can wait." He meets my eyes. "This matters. Your mother's work matters. We're not giving up without trying."
My throat closes. I can't speak past the sudden pressure of gratitude and grief and fear all tangled together.
