The kitchen door swings open. Mayor Elsie pokes her head in.
"Everything all right? People are asking where you went."
I straighten. Force my face into something resembling calm.
"Fine. Just dealing with some contaminated stock. I'll be out in a minute."
She frowns. "Anything serious?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
It's a lie but she accepts it with a nod and withdraws.
I look at Rogan. At the ruined seed packets. At the mess I've made of something I swore to protect.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Tonight. We look."
"We'll find something."
"You can't know that."
"No. But I can hope. And I can help you look. That's enough to start."
Outside, the seed swap continues. Inside, I stand in a professional kitchen surrounded by contaminated seeds and a chef who somehow thinks hope is a reasonable response to disaster.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe one viable seed is enough.
I pick up my notebook. Return to the swap. Smile at people and answer questions and pretend my world isn't quietly collapsing in the kitchen.
But my mind keeps circling back. Five hundred seeds. One viable option buried somewhere in the ruin.
The seed swap winds down around five. People leave with their packets and promises to report back on germination rates. The bistro empties slowly, reluctantly, the way good gatherings always do.
I stay behind to clean up. Sort the remaining viable seeds. Pack away tables. Avoid thinking about what comes next.
Rogan works the dinner service with Maya while I sit in the corner booth, methodically examining every single contaminated seed under my portable microscope.
Three hours and twenty minutes of hunching over the microscope. Four hundred and seventy-three individual seeds examined, photographed, cross-referenced against my contamination criteria.
Zero viable candidates. Not even close. Not even marginal.
My eyes burn from the eyepiece strain. My back aches from the sustained crouch over the booth table, spine curved in a way my chiropractor would lecture me about. The reality settles over me like frost, slow, inevitable, crystallizing into something I can't deny anymore.
It's gone. Really, truly gone. The last genetic remnant of my mother's careful selection work, her years of observation and saving and refining, reduced to laboratory curiosities. Beautiful failures. Seeds that will never germinate, never fruit, never pass their heritage forward.
I'm methodically packing up my equipment, microscope in its padded case, contaminated samples sealed in labeled bags for disposal, field notes stacked and clipped, when Maya slides into the booth across from me. She's still in her service blacks, but she's kicked off her shoes and her hair's escaping its neat bun.
"Bad?" she asks, watching me seal the last bag with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.
I meet her eyes. Don't bother softening it. "Complete loss."
"Rogan told me. About your mom's strain." She drums her fingers on the table. "What if we got more?"
"There is no more. I distributed the last backup stock."
"Who'd you give it to?"
