"So we knock. At eight o'clock at night. At a farm. What could go wrong?"
Rogan laughs. Actual laughter, bright and reckless. "Everything. That's what makes it interesting."
We turn into the driveway. Gravel crunches under the tires. Motion-sensor lights flare to life.
And the dogs start barking.
Three of them. Massive white shapes that materialize from the darkness like furry ghosts. They surround the truck, baying enthusiastically.
"Great dogs," Rogan says weakly. "Very... spirited dogs."
The porch light clicks on. Farmer Hank appears in the doorway, silhouetted and distinctly holding something long and cylindrical.
"That better not be who I think it is," he calls.
I roll down my window. "Hi, Hank. It's Ivy. From the seed program."
"I know who you are. What're you doing on my property after dark with a truck full of city folk?"
"They're not city folk. Well, Rogan is. But he owns the bistro now. And Maya works there. And we're really sorry to bother you but I have a situation."
The dogs continue their symphony. Hank stands motionless.
Then he sighs. "Dogs, quiet."
Instant silence. The dogs sit, tongues lolling, looking absurdly pleased with themselves.
"Come on up to the porch. Slow. Don't make any sudden moves or Daisy gets nervous."
We exit the truck carefully. The largest dog—presumably Daisy—watches us with intense focus.
Hank's porch smells like wood smoke and coffee. He sets down what I now see is a walking stick, not a weapon, and crosses his arms.
"Well?"
I explain. The contamination. The loss. The desperate hope that maybe, possibly, he still has some of the Purple Cherokee stock I gave him last spring.
Hank listens without interrupting. His face gives nothing away.
When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment.
"You came all the way out here," he finally says at last, voice gruff and measured, weighted with something between skepticism and grudging interest, "at night, to ask for seeds."
"Yes," I reply simply, not daring to elaborate.
"Seeds I was planning to plant come April." Each word drops like a stone. "Seeds I was counting on for my spring rotation."
"Yes. I know. I'm sorry." My hands twist the strap of my satchel. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I wouldn't imposeon you like this, showing up unannounced, disrupting your evening, if there was any other option."
Hank's jaw works. The porch light casts deep shadows across his weathered face, making his expression even harder to read.
"Important how?" He shifts his weight, the old boards creaking under his boots. "What makes these seeds worth a forty-five minute drive in the dark? Worth coming out here with strangers and waking my dogs?"
Rogan steps forward. Holds out a paper bag. "These might help explain."
Hank peers inside. Pulls out a jar of preserves. His expression shifts. Softens microscopically.
"This the fig thing from last year's festival?"
