Part 9 — What It’s Worth
The morning was bright in the way only a post-storm morning can be—sky scrubbed clean, air sharp with the smell of wet earth.
Jacob stood at the kitchen counter with the Powerball ticket between his fingers. The paper was smooth, untouched by the flood, almost smug in its neat row of numbers.
Claire poured coffee into two mismatched mugs. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll get,” Jacob said.
The ride into town was quiet. The road wound past fields where the water had pulled back, leaving everything matted and brown. Here and there, folks were already out with wheelbarrows, rakes, shovels—faces set in that determined, post-disaster way.
The gas station on Main Street doubled as the only place in Cedarburg where you could check a lottery ticket. Inside, the air smelled faintly of diesel and fried chicken. The clerk, a young guy with hair that stuck up like he’d been in a wind tunnel, looked up from the counter.
“Morning, Mr. Miles. Heard your place took a hit.”
Jacob nodded. “It’s still standing.”
“What can I do for you?”
Jacob slid the ticket across the counter. “Need to check this.”
The scanner beeped, and the young man’s eyebrows went up. “Well, I’ll be—this one’s a jackpot, alright. You’re gonna need to go to Madison to claim it. They don’t cut checks for this kind of money here.”
Claire smiled faintly. “Told you it was real.”
Jacob took the ticket back, slipped it into his shirt pocket like it might blow away otherwise. Outside, the air felt different—heavier, somehow, like the number in his pocket had changed its weight.
They stopped at the diner for breakfast. It was the same place Jacob and Ruth used to come for coffee after Sunday service, the same place where Brandon once talked him into a second piece of pie “because one slice can’t be lonely.”
They slid into a booth. The waitress, Marlene, brought coffee without asking. “On the house,” she said. “Heard you got something to smile about.”
Jacob raised an eyebrow. “News travels fast.”
Marlene shrugged. “Small town. Folks talk.”
When she left, Claire leaned forward. “So, what’s the plan? Cash it in and buy yourself a place on higher ground?”
Jacob looked out the window. Across the street, the feed store’s sign hung crooked from the wind. The hardware store’s front window was boarded up where a branch had gone through. “I’ve had higher ground before,” he said. “Doesn’t mean much if the people around you are still underwater.”
Claire tilted her head. “You’re thinking about sharing it.”
“I’m thinking about fixing things that need fixing,” he said. “Maybe not all at once. But enough to matter.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Granddad would’ve liked that.”
Jacob smiled, just a little. “I figure he’d expect it. ‘We both win,’ remember?”
After breakfast, they drove out to the north fence line again. Jacob wanted one more look before making any decisions. The river was calm now, moving slow under the early sun. The repaired post stood solid, the wire taut.
Jacob leaned on the top strand, the ticket still in his pocket. “You know, when we were kids, Brandon and I used to talk about buying up the land along this stretch. Not to keep people out—just so it wouldn’t get cut up, sold off, forgotten. We figured if we could keep it in one piece, it’d stay what it was.”
Claire nodded. “Maybe now you can.”
He thought about the deeds in the tin, the notebook in Brandon’s hand, the jar of money, the Polaroid. Every piece of it pointed back here—to the land, the river, the fence.
“I don’t need much,” he said. “Never did. But this… maybe it’s enough to make sure the ground keeps feeding people long after I’m gone.”
Claire’s smile was small but certain. “Then let’s do it.”
They drove back into town, but instead of heading toward the highway, Jacob parked in front of the bank. The manager, a man Jacob had known since he was knee-high, came out from behind his desk when he walked in.
“Jake,” he said, shaking his hand. “Heard about the ticket. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Jacob said. “I need to set up something. A trust, maybe. Something that’ll hold land and keep it working. Not for me—” he glanced at Claire “—for the community. For whoever comes next.”
The manager raised an eyebrow but nodded. “We can do that. You’ll still have plenty left over for yourself.”
Jacob smiled faintly. “That’s fine. I only need enough to keep the lights on and the soil turned.”
By the time they left the bank, the afternoon sun was warm on their backs. Jacob had an appointment in Madison the next week to claim the winnings officially, but the plan was already in motion.
As they drove home, Claire rolled down the window, letting the breeze carry the smell of fresh earth through the cab. “Feels different now,” she said.
Jacob nodded. “It’s not just about the money. It’s about what you do with what’s been left in your hands.”
He thought of Brandon’s voice, laughing in the garden, the weight of the tomato in his hands, the way he’d said a man ought to be proud of what he grows.
That night, Jacob sat in Ruth’s rocker on the porch, the ticket in one hand, the notebook from the fence post in the other. The sky was streaked pink and gold, the river whispering beyond the orchard.
He wrote one more line in the back of the notebook:
2025 — The garden will grow again. And so will we.
As dusk settled, Claire came out with two mugs of coffee and sat beside him. “So,” she said, “when do we start planting?” Jacob looked at the dark outline of the flooded field and smiled. “At first light.”
Part 10 — At First Light
The horizon was only a faint line when Jacob stepped onto the porch.
The boards were cool under his bare feet, the air sharp enough to sting his lungs. Somewhere in the orchard, a bird tested its morning song.
Claire appeared from the kitchen, carrying two steaming mugs. “Told you I’d be up,” she said, pressing one into his hand.
He nodded toward the field, still dark and damp but waiting. “Time to see what’s left in her.”
They worked in the gray half-light, the sky slowly opening above them. Jacob knelt in the churned soil, breaking it with the edge of his trowel, his knees sinking into the earth like an old prayer. Claire followed, dropping seeds into each small hollow—tomatoes, beans, basil, rows that would take shape once the sun found them.
“This soil’s heavier than it used to be,” Claire said, brushing mud from her hands.
“It’ll lighten,” Jacob said. “Give it time.”
The sound of boots on gravel made them both look up.
A figure was walking down the lane, hands in pockets, the gait slow but certain. Behind him came another, then two more. Neighbors.
By the time the sun’s rim broke over the trees, there were a dozen of them—farmers, shopkeepers, the postman, Marlene from the diner. Some carried seed packets, others tools. One man had a tray of young pepper plants balanced on his arm.
“Figured you might need a hand,” Marlene said, kneeling beside a row.
Jacob looked around at the faces, each marked by the same floodwater but lit now by something warmer. “I reckon I do,” he said.
The rows began to fill—straight and crooked alike—hands working side by side. The air was full of the smell of turned earth, the quiet scrape of trowels, the low murmur of voices.
Claire pressed a small tomato seedling into his palm. “This one’s for him,” she said.
Jacob planted it at the edge of the north fence line, near the post Brandon had kept standing all those years. He patted the soil firm around its stem. “Grow strong,” he murmured.
By midmorning, the field was a patchwork of green starts and dark furrows. Jacob stood at the porch, taking it in—the rocker at his back, the river beyond, the fence post steady in its place.
He pulled the cigar box from under his arm. Inside lay the notebook, the deeds, the jar of bills, and the two tickets. He set the box on the porch rail, opened the notebook to the last page, and wrote:
First light planting. Neighbors came. The fence still stands.
Claire stepped beside him, wiping dirt from her cheek. “You gonna keep writing in that thing?”
“Every season,” he said. “So the next one knows what was worth the work.”
They sat together in the rocker, watching as the sun caught the dew on the young leaves, turning each drop into a tiny spark. The river’s voice was calm now, steady, as if it had nothing left to prove.
Jacob thought about the deal they’d made as boys—We both win—and how long it had taken for him to understand that some winnings aren’t money at all.
Claire followed his gaze to the field. “It’s a good start,” she said.
“It’s the right start,” he answered.
He closed the cigar box, set it beside the rocker, and wrapped his hands around the warm mug. The scent of coffee mingled with the smell of damp soil, and for the first time in years, Jacob felt the day opening ahead of him instead of closing behind.
Above the north fence, the wind shifted, carrying the faint rustle of leaves over water. It sounded almost like a voice, laughing the way it used to in the garden, holding a tomato up to the light.
Jacob smiled into the morning. “We both win, Brandon,” he said.
And the garden, catching the sun, seemed to nod in agreement.
Some debts are paid in dollars, others in work, and the best ones in what we choose to grow together. If you can grow a garden, you can survive anything.
