The weather clears, and with it, teh money starts comin' in...

CHAPTER 44 – The Sky Clears and Plans Begin

It didn’t stop with a bang. Or a gust. Or some dramatic beam of sunshine partin’ the heavens like in a picture book. Nah. The rain stopped like a leaky faucet finally got bored. Just… one morning, I walked outside, and the world was still.

No drops on the tin. No drip from the eaves. Just quiet.

I stood there on the porch in my longjohns, half-awake, holdin’ my coffee like it was a holy relic. Then I realized somethin’ was different.

I looked up.

Blue.

Not a smudge of it. Not a hopeful patch peekin’ through gray. The whole sky—a lazy stretch of clear, honest-to-God blue. I stared so long Lu poked her head out the door and said, “You forget how to drink?”

I pointed up.

She looked. Smiled real soft. Then she said, “Well, I’ll be.”

The boys trickled out one by one, all of ’em squintin’ like moles.

“Did we die?” asked Nueve, rubbin’ his eyes.

“Is this heaven?” added Dies.

“If so, it smells like wet chickens,” muttered Tres.

I didn’t care. I walked barefoot into the grass just to feel it.

We lost a few rows of corn, some herbs drowned, and the cucumbers were growin’ sideways. But most of it? Still standin’. Bent, maybe. Bruised. But standin’.

We walked the field together, Lu and I, each of us carryin’ a clipboard and a hopeful heart. She jotted notes, muttered numbers, bent down to dig a finger in the soil.

“Drainage trenches worked,” she said. “Barely. But worked.”

I whistled low. “Guess Gus was right.”

“When isn’t he?”

“Don’t start.”

We checked on the orchard. The pecans were mostly fine, just a bit waterlogged. The peach trees looked better than expected—buds holdin’ on like they had somewhere to be.

The cows were already out in the sun, rollin’ in mud and floppin’ around like oversized dogs. Freckles mooed at me, then sneezed.

“Yeah, I feel the same way,” I said.

Back on the porch, Lu flipped through her notes and tapped a finger on the page.

“We can salvage seventy percent of the early crops. Might need to rotate in some fast-growers to fill the gaps. I’ve got seeds for kale, snap beans, maybe some ground cherries.”

“You already thinkin’ next steps?”

“Always,” she said, lookin’ up.

And that’s when it hit me. Not just that the storm was over. But that we’d made it. As a team. As a we.

I cleared my throat. “Hey. Walk with me.”

She arched a brow. “Somewhere in particular?”

“Knoll.”

That’s what we called the little rise past the back pasture. It overlooked the fields, the barn, and the old still house. I used to sit up there alone with Peg’s dog, back when I needed to clear my head. These days, I didn’t go up there much.

But today felt like a good day to remember where I started—and where we were goin’.

We hiked up slow. The grass squished under our boots, still soggy but smellin’ fresh. Spring was pokin’ its fingers out again. Bees buzzed lazy over early blossoms. Lu carried her thermos, and I brought a pair of old folding chairs.

Once we were settled, lookin’ out over our muddy little kingdom, she said, “Feels good to sit down.”

“Feels good to breathe.”

“I didn’t realize how tense I’d been,” she admitted. “My back thinks I’ve been sleepin’ on a rock.”

“You have,” I said. “It’s named Quattro. He steals blankets.”

She laughed, then got quiet.

I watched her for a moment—how her eyes scanned the land, how her fingers gripped that thermos. She looked tired. But it was a good kind of tired. The kind you earn.

“What if,” I said slowly, “we built somethin’ out here.”

She turned. “Like what?”

“A little storefront. Nothing fancy. Just a place near the gate where we could sell direct—booze, honey, pies, roasted pecans. Maybe Seis’s spicy pickles if he stops tryin’ to ferment ‘em with chili powder and vengeance.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You serious?”

“Thinkin’ out loud.”

Lu leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’ve been thinkin’ a lot lately.”

“Rain’ll do that to a man.”

We sat in silence for a while, the wind rustlin’ the grass around us. Below, the boys were cleanin’ up the yard—stackin’ firewood, airin’ out boots, tossin’ waterlogged rags into the compost.

“You know,” she said finally, “a store wouldn’t be the worst idea. If we plan it right, use salvaged wood, keep it small.”

“And we could paint a sign,” I added. “Earthshine Goods. Has a ring to it.”

Lu smiled slow. “It does.”

I watched a bird hop along a fencepost and thought about how strange it was, findin’ hope again in a world that wasn’t even mine to begin with.

Back at the house, we gathered the crew.

“Listen up,” I said, leanin’ against the porch rail. “We’ve weathered the wet. Now we build.”

There were some groans, a few tired laughs.

“We’re plannin’ to put up a little farm stand,” Lu announced. “Right near the front. You’ll all have a hand in it. That means clearin’ the land, salvin’ lumber, maybe even paintin’ if you’re brave enough.”

“I call purple!” shouted Nueve.

“No,” Lu said without even lookin’ up.

We all chuckled. Then Quattro asked the question I’d been expectin’.

“Why now?”

I looked at him and shrugged. “’Cause this ain’t just a place to live anymore. It’s a place to be. And I want folks to see it. Taste it. Know it’s here.”

Lu nodded beside me. “We’ve built somethin’ good. Time to share it.”

The boys started murmur-in’. Seis was already sketchin’ in the dirt with a stick. Uno began draftin’ a barrel inventory in his head, judgin’ by how his lips were movin’. And Dies just said, “Do we get to name the store?”

“No,” Lu said again.

Later that night, I found myself back on the knoll, alone this time. Just watchin’ the stars come out.

Peg would’ve loved this place. Not the mess. Not the chaos. But the people. The feelin’ of it.

I took off my hat, set it in my lap, and let the wind tousle my hair.

“We’re doin’ okay,” I whispered. “And I think... you’d like her.”

Behind me, the farmhouse lights glowed warm. I could hear Lu’s voice faintly, callin’ the boys in for pie.

And I knew—clearer than that blue sky—that we weren’t just survivin’ anymore.

We were buildin’.

CHAPTER 45 – The First Market Day

You ever try livin’ with ten restless, half-grown catboys in one farmhouse for two weeks? I don’t recommend it.

The boys had a bunkhouse. Always did. Came straight from Earth, prefab, weather-sealed, solar-panel roof and everything. Sleeps ten, barely. But when the rain hit and kept on hittin’, the place started condensin’ on the inside like a breath-fogged jar. The beds stayed dry thanks to Lu’s plastic underlayers, but the floors turned slick and the walls started smellin’ like a wet dog met a gym locker. After the third “accidental” fire while someone tried to dry their tail near the heater, Lu made the call.

“They’re sleepin’ in the main house until it clears,” she said. “End of discussion.”

I just nodded and accepted my fate.

It was chaos. Uno snored like a train. Quattro liked to practice speeches in his sleep. Dies sleptwalked into the pantry twice and tried to spoon a bag of flour. Someone—Seis, probably—kept hiding eggs under couch cushions to “warm them up naturally.” I’m not proud of how loud I yelled when I sat on one.

So when the sky finally turned blue again, and that blessed co-op drone sent us a message about a dry forecast, Lu clapped her hands and said, “Market. Today.”

“We ain’t got anythin’ prepped,” I said, cautiously. “We’ve been up to our elbows in muck.”

“We’ve got pies,” she replied. “We’ve got liquor. We’ve got honey, and if these boys don’t go outside soon, I’m gonna start stackin’ them like firewood.”

Fair.

So we pulled out the inventory: four dozen roasted pecan bundles, three dozen honey jars, six honey pies with firm tops and sugared crusts, and twenty-eight bottles of our now-perfected spiced honey liqueur—just enough to make an impression, not so much we’d be cryin’ if no one bought.

The boys moved like lightning. They hauled crates out the back door like we were bein’ raided. Quattro personally boxed the pies, guardin’ them like treasure. Once and Doce helped tighten the caps on the bottles, while Uno and Dos checked every label twice. Nueve rewrote the price signs five times just to make the lettering “feel right.”

By the time Gus rolled up in his rover, we were ready.

“You lot look downright professional,” he said, steppin’ out and stretchin’ his back.

“We’ve been stuck indoors,” Lu told him. “They’re twitchy.”

“They look it.”

The ride to town was loud. The boys sang some nonsense song about mashed yams and moonshine. Gus hollered lyrics back. Lu sat up front with her clipboard and a calm look that told me she was already doin’ inventory in her head. I just watched the road and let the wind hit my face.

Town was buzzin’ when we arrived. Market day always brought folks out—ranchers from the co-op, off-world traders, and curious travelers who followed their noses. We snagged a spot near the grain stall and started settin’ up.

Table went down first. Cloth on top. Lu unfolded her price sheet, the boys stacked bottles, jars, and bundles with care. Nueve strung up our little hand-painted sign: Earthshine Goods with a golden sun peekin’ over a field of crooked wheat.

I stood back and took it in. It looked... right. Like we belonged.

First customer was a wiry woman with a long braid and mud up to her knees. She picked up a pecan pouch and sniffed.

“Sugar-roasted?”

“Honey roasted with a cinnamon finish,” Lu said, smiling.

The woman dropped three silver coins on the table without blinkin’.

Then came a couple with a baby strapped to one chest and a dog strapped to the other. They sampled the liqueur—just a thimble—and walked off with two bottles. Said it’d be a wedding gift. For themselves.

By mid-mornin’, we were down to one pie, ten jars of honey, and less than a dozen bottles.

Then he showed up. Big guy. Bald head, arms like fenceposts. Apron dusted with flour and ash.

“You the ones behind this honey booze?” he asked, holdin’ up a half-empty bottle like it was proof in a courtroom.

Lu stepped forward. “We are.”

He nodded. “I run Brannigan’s, the taproom down near the co-op post. I ain’t tasted somethin’ this clean in a long time. You open to a deal?”

She folded her arms. “What sort?”

“You supply twelve bottles a week, I pay full rate, cash on delivery. More if it sells.”

I opened my mouth to say something—probably about how we’d need to think it over—but Lu was already reachin’ out her hand.

“Done. You’ll have the first twelve by next Thursday.”

Brannigan smiled. “I like you. No fuss.”

“I like buyers who don’t haggle,” she said, cool as stone.

He left with a crate under his arm and a handshake. I stared at her.

“You planned that?”

“I hoped for it,” she said. “Plannin’ starts now.”

Once the rush died down, we packed up what was left—mostly crumbs and optimism. The boys were full of grins, tradin’ snacks they’d bought with their own pocket coins. Seis got a jar of pickled turnips, Nueve found a weird rubber duck that squeaked when you bit it, and Dies managed to trade his old socks for a wooden whistle carved like a rooster. The market’s weird like that.

Back at the farm, we unloaded in the golden glow of late afternoon. Lu tallied up the coins and trade chits. “We made enough to buy a month’s grain and still have plenty left for supplies.”

“And wages,” I added.

She looked at me sideways.

“Boys earned it,” I said. “Been cooped up, kept things runnin’, and sold out their first market. They deserve a cut.”

Lu nodded slowly. “All right. They’ll appreciate it.”

That night, we sat out on the porch, passin’ a half-empty bottle of our own stuff between us. The stars were out. The breeze was clean. The boys were back in the bunkhouse, thank the stars, sleepin’ off their market buzz and fried snacks.

“I was thinkin’,” Lu said after a while, “we could add more help.”

“Brothers?” I asked.

“If they’re willin’. We’ll need more hands to keep up.”

“I don’t mind more help,” I said. “Long as they don’t snore louder than Uno.”

She laughed, soft and warm.

“I’ll send word,” she said.

I didn’t argue. Truth be told, this little business of ours was growin’. Fast. And I was feelin’ a little proud. Not just of the booze, or the money—but of us.

We weren’t just farmers anymore.

We were merchants.