"With three hundred dollars worth of equipment inside? No thanks."
I look at the trailer. The hitch. The utterly inadequate collection of tools in Maya's emergency kit.
"I might have something," I say slowly. "There's a farm supply place about fifteen minutes back. They have an automated lockbox for after-hours emergencies. If I can access it with my co-op membership, I can get proper tools."
"That's a thing?" Rogan asks.
"It's a rural thing. People need equipment at weird hours."
We climb back in the truck. Maya drives us to the supply place, a low building with industrial lighting and a reinforced lockbox mounted outside.
I swipe my membership card. The box clicks open, revealing organized rows of tools and supplies.
"This is the most practical thing I've ever seen," Rogan says reverently.
"Welcome to farm country."
I grab what we need. Sign the digital log. Lock the box.
Back at the trailer, Maya and I work the hitch while Rogan holds a flashlight and provides commentary.
"Little to the left. No, your other left. Is it supposed to make that sound?"
"Yes," Maya and I say in unison.
Twenty minutes of wrestling later, the hitch clicks into place. Secure. Stable.
We collapse against the truck, breathing hard.
"That," Maya says, "was way harder than the actual seed rescue."
"The seed rescue involved bribery and cute dogs," Rogan points out. "This involved actual manual labor."
"You held a flashlight."
"Crucial flashlight work. Very technical."
I laugh despite myself. Despite everything. We're standing on the side of a dark road, covered in gravel dust and probably trespassing on someone's supply account, and I'm laughing.
Rogan looks my eyes. Grins.
"Worth it?" he asks quietly.
I touch the vial in my pocket. Feel the small weight of thirty-seven seeds. Thirty-seven chances to continue something that matters.
"Yeah. Worth it."
We pile back into the truck. Maya drives us home while Rogan fiddles with the radio and I catalog everything that just happened in my field notebook.
Drove to Farmer Hank's farm. Retrieved Purple Cherokee backup stock. Successfully avoided dog bites and shotgun threats. Fixed trailer hitch using co-op emergency supplies.
Not my usual Saturday night.
We reach the bistro around ten. The building is dark except for the security light over the kitchen entrance.
"Thank you," I tell them both. "For doing this. For helping."
"That's what we do," Maya says. "We help. Even when it's weird and involves angry farm dogs."
