He rests one hand on the tiller handle.
“Because that breaks it up.”
He nods toward the soil.
“You still have to go deep if you want anything to grow.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That feels like it’s about more than dirt.”
“It is.”
“Okay, well that’s… mildly threatening.”
“It’s not.”
“You just made it sound like my entire life is shallow.”
He watches me for a second. Then says, calm as ever:
“Wrong tool.”
I huff out a laugh.
“Excuse me?”
“You were trying to force it.”
He gestures toward the ground.
“This just helps you get where you need to go faster.”
I look at the soil. It's soft now and manageable.
“So you’re saying I suffered unnecessarily.”
“I’m saying,” he replies, “you needed to understand what you were working with before you used the right tool to make progress.”
I stare at him. Then shake my head.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
“You are, Troy.”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
He doesn’t answer which, to me, is confirmation. I glance at the ground again. Then at the tiller. Then at him.
“Well,” I say slowly, “this feels like cheating.”
“Or working smarter.”
I huff a laugh. This is the moment where I realize two things at the exact same time. One: I might actually be able to do this. And two: Troy Bennett is going to be a problem.
