Chapter 1: The Price of Coming Home

The sharp tang of crushed citrus clung to my jacket as I waited outside the plant manager’s office, heart pounding. All I could think about was getting a fair deal for our town’s sugar mandarins. In the end, after weeks of negotiating, late-night calls, and promises I wasn’t sure I could keep, I landed a deal: the plant would pay $2.70 a pound for our mandarins, but $0.90 of that was a so-called “sales commission”—an under-the-table finder’s fee. So, the farmers would only see $1.80 per pound.

I was sure I’d pulled off a miracle. I could picture my parents finally fixing up the old Chevy, the whole town celebrating. But when the plant staff rolled in to collect the fruit, things turned ugly fast.

Someone shouted across the open-air meeting space beside the old elementary school, their voice slicing through the cold morning air. "Some of you might not have finished high school, but you can sure tell the difference between $1.80 and $2.70! The contract says $2.70 a pound. Mark, why’d you tell us it was only $1.80?"

The folding chairs creaked, and someone’s thermos of coffee steamed in the cold air. Every eye drilled into me—the kid who left for college and came back with a briefcase and a deal nobody trusted. My hands started shaking, and for a second I remembered being a kid in that same school, staring at the chalkboard, praying I wouldn’t get called on.

"Did the rest of the money end up in your dog’s bowl? You’re cashing in while the rest of us scrape by? That’s low, Mark. Who knew a fancy degree would turn you into a snake?"

Rusty, our old beagle, snoozed under Dad’s chair, oblivious to the storm. Their words kept coming, louder, each one landing like a slap. I fought back tears, but forced a tight smile, pretending their words didn’t sting. Small-town grudges outlast winter frost, I remembered.

"We grew about 400 tons this year. That’s over $2 million at $2.70, but you’re only giving folks $1.3 million. Where’s the other $700,000, Mark? Lining your pockets? That’s just heartless."

A cap hit the ground in disgust. Another man spat into the gravel, like that settled it. The whole thing felt like a public shaming. My stomach twisted. I’d come home to help, but now it looked like I’d betrayed them all.

So I grinned—a bitter, defiant kind of grin—and drove to the next town over, bought their sugar mandarins instead. Sometimes, in a small town, the only way to keep your pride is to walk away, even if your boots are caked in mud. If the folks back home wanted their mandarins to rot, so be it.