Chapter 3: Storms and Setups

Soon, this year’s heavy rain arrived, and it poured for three days straight.

Thunder rattled the windows of my tiny trailer each night. I woke up to the smell of damp earth and mildew, checking the radar on my cracked iPhone every hour.

Luckily, I was prepared. The money I gave Mr. Jenkins for building greenhouses wasn’t wasted. Everyone’s fields were fine.

I exhaled, feeling a small swell of pride—until a knock at the door shattered it.

Suddenly, there was a wailing outside the door.

"It’s over, all over!"

The kind of cry that makes your heart skip. It was Mr. Harris, covered in mud, desperation written all over him.

I opened the door. Mr. Harris stumbled in, his jeans covered in mud.

He left a trail of wet, red Tennessee clay on my floor, barely able to catch his breath. The storm outside rattled the trailer, thunder rolling like bowling balls down an alley.

He grabbed my arm, his voice shrill. "Dr. Parker, come quickly and look at my field, all the seedlings are flooded!"

His grip was ice cold, and I could see the whites of his eyes. I didn’t bother with my raincoat—just grabbed my boots and followed him out into the storm.

My heart sank, and I immediately followed him.

Every step squished with water, the sky an angry gray overhead. I braced myself for the worst.

When we arrived, the scene before me made my blood pressure skyrocket.

Half of the greenhouse had collapsed, tender green strawberry seedlings sprawled everywhere, their roots rotting.

The muddy water rose around my ankles. The plastic sheeting hung like a shroud over the twisted frames. It looked like a shipwreck.

I stared at the wreckage, anger surging. "The $7,500 I gave was for Mr. Jenkins to buy thick poly sheeting and steel frames. What is this you’re using? Bamboo poles? Plastic drop cloths?"

I yanked at the flimsy plastic. The rain nearly drowned out my words, but the fury in my voice cut through.

Mrs. Carter suddenly burst into tears, plopping into the muddy water, slapping her thigh and wailing. "How would we know? Mr. Jenkins didn’t say it was wrong, who knew it would collapse."

She let her hands splash mud everywhere, mascara running in dark streaks. For a moment, I felt sorry for her, but it was buried under frustration.

With a cold face, I went straight to find Mr. Jenkins.

I stomped across town, the rain pounding my hood, boots sucking at the mud. If Jenkins had tried to duck out, he’d have had to hide in the next county.

In the office, Mr. Jenkins was sipping coffee and reading the local paper. He was startled when I burst in, soaking wet.

He jumped, sloshing his Folgers onto his khakis. His smile slipped as soon as he saw my face.

I stared at him, enunciating each word. "Mr. Harris’s greenhouse collapsed."

My voice shook, but I kept it steady. I wanted him to know I wasn’t here to play games. My fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms.

Mr. Jenkins’s smile froze, then he sighed. "Dr. Parker, I have to explain. The money was there, but Mr. Harris and the other two thought it was too expensive and insisted on buying their own. I told them again and again to buy according to your standards."

He wrung his hands, glancing at the ceiling like he was praying for patience. "You know how folks are—don’t listen to reason."

Mr. Jenkins pressed a hand to his chest, like he was trying to keep his heart from falling out. "They even promised to take responsibility if anything went wrong. As neighbors, I couldn’t stop them. In the end… sigh, it’s all my fault, I trusted them too much."

He wiped at imaginary tears with a checkered handkerchief. I watched him, my anger barely contained.

I was about to argue when a group of people suddenly rushed in—Mr. Harris, Mrs. Carter, and a dozen other folks.

Boots stomped on linoleum, voices overlapping like a pack of hounds baying at a raccoon.

"Dr. Parker, this isn’t Mr. Jenkins’s fault," Mr. Harris shouted as soon as he entered. "After the steel frame, you need thick sheeting, which is five times more expensive than before. Now you paid, but we’ll have to pay for the rest in the future."

Mr. Harris’s voice quavered with outrage, but his eyes kept darting to Jenkins for backup.

"Dr. Parker," Mr. Jenkins suddenly lowered his voice, "how about… you go look at the fields?"

He spoke so softly only I could hear, like he was slipping me a secret.

In the rain, I used a flashlight to check. The drainage ditches were all clogged with silt.

My boots slipped on the muddy bank. Water pooled everywhere. The flashlight beam caught the glint of broken bottles and bits of old tin can—evidence of quick fixes and cutting corners.

Most importantly, the reservoir at the east end of town—the lifeline of the irrigation system.

A big muddy pond behind the water tower, ringed with battered fencing. If that went, the whole valley would drown.

"This year’s rain is too heavy. The whole town’s drainage channels are blocked. If it keeps raining a few more days… if the reservoir breaks…" Mr. Jenkins’s voice sounded in my ear, "thirty acres downstream will be flooded."

I heard the threat in his tone. This wasn’t just a crop problem—this was livelihoods, homes.

Mr. Jenkins looked troubled. "Originally, the money you fronted was enough to fix the drainage. But the sheeting and steel frames had to be top quality, so the money was only enough for this. Just buying the sheeting wasn’t enough."

He said it with a shrug, as if he’d had no other choice.

I looked at Mr. Jenkins’s pained expression and suddenly realized this was a setup.

My stomach twisted. I saw it then—the way he’d maneuvered everything. No matter what, the blame landed on my doorstep.

First, let Mr. Harris’s three families be the "guinea pigs" and mess up, while other households seemed "okay" but actually hid big risks.

All the blame was shifted to me for demanding the best, making it look like I was making things hard for everyone.

Now, either I let it go, or I keep paying.

And they’d make me the villain if anything went wrong.

This old fox calculated well, but if the reservoir broke, all the town’s land would be ruined.

I pictured the flood, the headlines, the finger-pointing. I couldn’t let that happen—not on my watch.

At the moment, I had no other way out. I could only hope to get my money back from the strawberry profits in the future.

I stared at the muck, knowing I was cornered. My hands shook as I fished out my debit card.

I gritted my teeth, took out my bank card, and handed it to Mr. Jenkins. "Only $7,500 left. If something else goes wrong, you all bear it yourselves."

I made sure my voice was ironclad, looking every last one of them in the eye.

"And this time," I said, word by word, "I want to see complete construction records and purchase lists. Not a single receipt can be missing."

I wrote it down on my legal pad, underlining every sentence. They could try to wiggle out, but I’d have proof.

Mr. Jenkins nodded vigorously, thanking me profusely, but his eyes were glued to my wallet.

He tried to clap me on the back, but I dodged him. I didn’t trust his smile for a second.

"Dr. Parker, you’re a real saint. Don’t worry, I’ll personally oversee it this time. Nothing will go wrong."

He said it so sweetly it made my teeth ache. I just nodded, my face a mask.

I pretended not to hear the sarcasm in his words, clapped my hands. "Solve the drainage problem within a week. Next week, the state TV station will come to film, and the demonstration field will be officially revealed. Cooperate well, and we’ll participate in the State Strawberry Festival, win the best variety, and won’t have to worry about sales for the next three years."

My words echoed in the wet air, their faces lit up by visions of ribbons and cash.

The folks nodded like bobbleheads, all speaking sweetly: "Dr. Parker, don’t worry, we’ll listen to you."

For now, at least, we were all on the same side. Or so I hoped.