Silence.
Then Farmer Hank speaks.
"How much time do we have?"
"To decide?" Webb checks his tablet. "The petition deadline is in six days. After that, it goes to county review regardless of signature count. But a strong showing of local support expedites approval."
"And if we don't sign?"
"Then you keep your land. Keep farming. Keep struggling." Webb's smile is sympathetic. "I'm not forcing anyone. I'm offering a choice."
Hank looks down at his pie plate, the lattice crust half-eaten and growing cold. He glances across the pavilion at the festive chaos—the bunting, the crowd, the evidence of everything he's helped build. Then his gaze finds Ivy, standing resolute beside me, her hands still clenched at her sides from the speech.
He sets his plate down slowly, deliberately, as if the act requires his full concentration.
"I need to think," he says. His voice is rougher than before, stripped of its usual gruff warmth. "Need to talk to my wife. Look at the books. Figure out what makes sense."
He doesn't wait for a response. He just walks away, his shoulders hunched slightly, moving with the careful steps of someone carrying unexpected weight.
A few others drift after him, not dramatically, but noticeably. A couple I recognize from the farmers' market. A woman who runs a small orchard on the east ridge. They don't seem angry, just... uncertain. Thoughtful in a way that feels heavy.
Webb starts methodically packing up his materials, sliding glossy folders back into his leather portfolio with the efficient movements of someone used to rejection. He seals everything with the care of a surgeon closing a wound.
He catches my eye as he straightens. There's no malice in his expression, which somehow makes it worse.
"Good speech," he says quietly, his tone almost conversational. "Very heartfelt. I mean that sincerely. But you're asking people to choose principles over survival to gamble their retirement, their children's security, on a vision that might never materialize. History suggests that rarely works. People are afraid. And fear is always louder than ideals."
He tucks his portfolio under his arm and offers a small, professional nod before disappearing into the crowd.
The festival continues around us, oblivious or trying to be. The band strikes up something louder. The goat parade starts in earnest, Ivy's escaped goats wearing flower garlands, kids shrieking with delight as they chase the animals between booths. Someone's grandmother laughs. Someone else wins a prize.
But underneath it all, something has shifted. The joy feels thinner now, stretched too taut. The brittle kind of happy that might crack if you press too hard.
Ivy and I find ourselves standing at the pavilion's edge, slightly apart from the festivities. We're still in it, but not quite of it anymore.
"Six days," Ivy says. Her voice is quiet, almost hollow. She's staring toward the direction Hank walked. "Six days until the petition deadline."
"We'll figure it out," I say. The words feel small in my mouth.
"How?" There's no accusation in her tone, just genuine exhaustion. "He's offering them money we can't match, security we can't guarantee, a clean exit from a life that's been getting harder every year. What exactly are we offering against that?"
"We offer them community," I say, and even as the words come out, I know how inadequate they sound. "A future that isn't just about profit margins. Connection to their land, to each other, to something that actually means something."
She turns to look at me, and her face is streaked with the kind of fatigue that goes deeper than the physical. "Is that enough?" she asks. "Really, truly enough to make them turn down what he's offering?"
I open my mouth. Close it. The truth sits heavy between us.
I don't know.
The festival runs until dusk.By the time we finish cleanup, my feet ache and my apron is destroyed.
Ivy finds me breaking down the last food station.
"Come with me," she says.
"Where?"
"Seed barn. I have wine and spite. We're going to plan."
