"Made fresh yesterday. Three jars. And I'm offering you supplier spotlight for the Heritage Foundation catering event. Your name on the menu. Your produce featured. Good for business."
"I don't need business. Got more orders than I can handle."
"Then we'll owe you a favor," I say. "A real one. The kind you can call in anytime."
Hank looks at me. At the preserves. At his dogs, who've arranged themselves in a neat row like furry judges.
"How many seeds you need?"
"Minimum ten. Twenty would be safer for genetic diversity."
"I've got thirty-seven. Saved 'em proper, in the cold storage." He shakes his head. "Your mother was particular about these tomatoes. Used to tell me they were tougher than most people. Said they'd survive things that would kill softer varieties."
My throat tightens. "She was right."
"Yeah. She usually was." He moves toward the barn. "Wait here. Don't pet the dogs. Daisy bites when she's friendly."
We stand on the porch in silence. Maya gives me a significant look. Rogan bounces slightly on his heels, energy barely contained.
Hank returns five minutes later with a small glass vial. Inside, thirty-seven purple-dark tomato seeds rest in careful arrangement.
I take it with shaking hands.
"Thank you," I manage. "Really. This means?—"
"I know what it means. Why d'you think I saved 'em so careful?" He accepts the preserves from Rogan. "Now get off my property before the dogs decide you're toys."
We retreat to the truck. The dogs escort us to the driveway, tails wagging.
As soon as we're back on the main road, Maya whoops.
"We did it! Actual seed heist! That was amazing!"
"That was terrifying," Rogan says. "I thought Daisy was going to eat my ankles."
"Daisy's a sweetheart. She just has boundary issues."
I clutch the vial, not quite believing it's real. Thirty-seven seeds. Enough to restart the strain. Enough to keep my mother's work alive.
We're halfway back to town when Maya's phone rings. She glances at it, then curses.
"What?" Rogan asks.
"Trailer hitch just came loose. I can feel it dragging."
She pulls over. We pile out to investigate.
The small equipment trailer Maya uses for catering supplies has indeed come loose. It's dragging at an angle, one corner dug into the gravel shoulder.
"How did that happen?" I ask.
"Old hitch. I've been meaning to replace it." Maya crouches to examine the connection. "We need to reattach it but I don't have the right tools."
Rogan pulls out his phone. "I'll call a tow service."
"At nine o'clock on a Saturday? In Pine Hollow?" Maya snorts. "We'll be waiting until Monday."
"So we leave the trailer."
