I blink. Pull out my field notebook. Flip to last spring's distribution records.
Seven farmers received Purple Cherokee stock. I cross-reference with my mental map of who's still actively growing, who saved seeds properly, who might have surplus.
"Farmer Hank got twenty seeds. He's meticulous about saving. But he lives forty-five minutes away and doesn't answer his phone after eight."
Maya checks her watch. "It's seven-thirty."
"He also has three livestock guardian dogs and a shotgun he likes to display prominently."
"So we ask nicely."
"At night. Unannounced. For seeds he's probably already storing for his own spring planting."
"You got a better idea?"
I don't. That's the problem, and we both know it. I stare down at the crossed-out names in my notebook, the shrinking list of possibilities, the arithmetic of failure.
Rogan emerges from the kitchen, apron already off, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair's still chaotic from the dinner rush, more disheveled than usual, if that's even possible. There's a smudge of something dark on his forearm. Balsamic, maybe. Or the blackberry reduction he was testing earlier.
"We going?" he asks, like it's already decided.
"Going where?" I look between him and Maya, suspicious.
"Farmer Hank's place. To get your seeds back." He says it like it's obvious, like this is a perfectly reasonable plan that doesn't involve showing up unannounced at a notoriously private farmer's property well after dark.
"That's not how this works," I say slowly, carefully, as if explaining basic agriculture to someone who should absolutely know better. "You can't just take seeds from people's winter storage. That's his inventory. His insurance for spring."
"We're not taking. We're asking. Politely." The grin spreads across his face, the one that probably gets him out of trouble more often than it should. "With bribery."
I stare at him. "Bribery."
"I made him that preserve he likes. The spicy fig thing. Three jars. Plus I'll promise him priority access to the Heritage Foundation menu when we cater it. Local supplier spotlight. Good publicity."
"Assuming we actually get the contract."
"We will. But first we get your seeds." He's already pulling on his jacket. "Come on. Worst case he says no and we've wasted an hour."
"Worst case his dogs eat us."
"I'm great with dogs."
"You are not great with dogs. I've seen you around dogs. You're nervous around dogs."
Maya stands. "I'm driving. You two can argue in the backseat."
I should say no. Should accept the loss gracefully and start planning alternatives. Should not drag two people on a ridiculous midnight rescue mission for seeds that may not even exist anymore.
But I'm already grabbing my coat.
We pile into Maya's truck. She drives while Rogan navigates and I sit in the back clutching my field notebook like a talisman.
The roads narrow as we leave town. Trees close in. Farmland spreads dark and silent under a sliver of moon.
"Left up here," I say. "Then the second driveway. Look for the blue mailbox."
"Got it." Maya slows. "So what's the plan? We knock? Or do we text first?"
"Hank doesn't text. He considers it impersonal."
