Chapter 5: Walking Away

My hand trembled slightly as I held the contract. They weren’t joking.

Suddenly, my faith in agriculture collapsed. I had turned down all high-paying jobs and refused to sell my patents.

Not to mention the money I fronted, I lived in a drafty, leaky trailer for a year, barely sleeping well.

I remembered those nights, curled up in a sleeping bag, listening to the wind whistle through the cracked window, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.

I taught them step by step how to plant, build greenhouses, fertilize. Every task in the field I led, and that’s how Maple Hollow strawberries became famous.

It was my sweat in that dirt—my hands cracked and raw. No one else had been there before dawn, hauling hoses and fighting aphids with nothing but dish soap and hope.

Using my technology and patents, yet named after Maple Hollow.

Their name on the sign, but my science in the soil.

As long as they persisted in serious cultivation, they’d be lifted out of poverty in a few years. But now, the honest folks I’d worked with for a year suddenly felt so unfamiliar.

They looked at me like a stranger. I wondered if I’d ever really belonged here, or if I’d just been a tool to them all along.

Seeing me dazed, Mr. Harris urged impatiently, "Dr. Parker, you’ve worked so hard, running around, talking yourself hoarse, fronted so much money and barely slept. You don’t want all your efforts wasted, do you?"

He sounded almost pleading, but I could tell it was all about leverage, not gratitude.

"Our Maple Hollow strawberries are famous now. My relatives are all pre-ordering. As soon as the contract is signed, we’ll work hard."

He smiled, showing too many teeth. I felt my stomach twist.

Mr. Jenkins spoke as if coaxing a child. "Dr. Parker, you earn a lot and have connections. $150,000 is nothing to you, but to the folks, it’s a lifetime’s money."

He patted my shoulder, his grip tighter than necessary. I fought the urge to jerk away.

Mrs. Carter winked. "Exactly, Parker, the state gives you an award, you become a big shot, can make money anywhere, and save years of effort."

She flashed a sly grin, her voice dripping with envy.

The more I listened, the colder my heart became. So it wasn’t that they didn’t know my efforts, but that they were deliberately using my hard work and help as leverage against me.

They twisted every act of kindness, every hour I’d given, into a weapon. My mouth tasted of metal, my hands shaking with rage.

This year, besides the $12,000 I fronted, I often bought them fertilizer and paid utility bills, yet never got a sincere thank you. Instead, they used my efforts as a bargaining chip to extort me.

I remembered every grocery run, every late-night call to help with the power, every time I covered a neighbor’s tab at the diner. None of it meant a thing to them now.

Mr. Jenkins’s trick with the drainage repairs—I shouldn’t have softened then. It only encouraged their greed, making them think I’d agree to any condition for the Strawberry Festival.

Regret burned in my chest. Kindness, it turned out, was just another weakness to be exploited.

My dad always warned me—don’t stick your neck out for folks who’ll chop it off.

"Dr. Parker, time’s running out," Mr. Jenkins tapped the contract with his knuckles, smiling, "Sign it, it’s good for everyone. Later, you’ll see, when we sell strawberries, you’ll get dividends. You won’t lose out."

He dangled promises like bait. The others nodded, their eyes hungry.

Mr. Harris suddenly stepped forward, the smell of cheap tobacco wafting over. "If it weren’t for us teaching you how to farm, you wouldn’t have managed the demonstration field."

He stood so close I could see the sweat beading on his upper lip. His bravado made me want to laugh and scream at the same time.

"Taught me to farm?" I was so angry I laughed. "I taught you all step by step…"

The bitterness in my voice surprised even me. My hands balled into fists at my sides.

"Alright, calm down." Mr. Jenkins pressed my shoulder, his grip painful. "Parker, there’s only an hour before the market opens. If there’s trouble now…"

He looked toward the booth, where a dozen folks stopped what they were doing to glare at me. I saw the threat in their eyes.

He deliberately dragged out his words, glancing at the display booth, where a dozen folks had stopped working and were staring at us menacingly.

His meaning was clear: give in, or lose everything.

"Are you threatening me?" I lowered my voice.

I stared straight into Jenkins’s cold eyes, daring him to say it aloud.

"How can this be called a threat?" Mr. Jenkins squinted with a smile. "This is mutually beneficial. Think about it, once we win the prize, your patents will be even more valuable. Dr. Parker is a smart person, surely you don’t want your hard-earned money to fly away."

His voice was oily, words sliding around the truth.

I looked up at them. This year, all my effort was wasted.

I looked down at my boots, now splattered with strawberry juice and regret. I’d never felt more alone in a crowd.

For the first time all year, I realized I might walk away with nothing—and I wasn’t sure if that scared me or set me free.

"Then don’t sell," I took out my phone. "Also, I recorded our conversation just now."

I made sure my voice rang out clear, holding my phone up for all to see. The room went so quiet, you could hear the ice melting in Mrs. Carter’s lemonade.

Mr. Jenkins’s face stiffened, but he quickly forced a cold smile. "Recording? Who are you trying to scare? Dr. Parker, are you really willing to let a year’s effort be destroyed?"

He tried to sound dismissive, but his knuckles whitened on the contract.

Mrs. Carter even took out a Venmo QR code. "You can pay a deposit before signing the contract, that’s fine too. There’s really no time."

She shoved her phone under my nose, desperate for a quick win. I almost laughed at the absurdity.

I started packing. "No time, then I’ll leave."

I shoved everything into my battered duffel—the same one I’d brought when I first arrived. The air in the room shifted; panic replaced bravado.

Mr. Harris and Mrs. Carter panicked. Mr. Jenkins grabbed my backpack. "Parker, we’re all neighbors here. No need for this. If you think $150,000 is too much, we can talk."

His grip was tight, his voice cracking as he tried to reel me back in.

"How about $120,000? Split among the town, just make do."

He tried to haggle, as if this were a yard sale and not my life’s work.

I sneered and said directly, "No way. Without me, Maple Hollow is worthless."

My words echoed. I saw the flash of anger—and fear—cross Jenkins’s face.

Mr. Jenkins snorted, staring at me. "Parker, you think we’re just country bumpkins? If you were so capable, why come here and do so much for the town?"

His voice was pure spite now, the mask dropped. The crowd began to murmur uneasily.

Mrs. Carter got anxious, whispered in Mr. Jenkins’s ear, and the others huddled together, discussing in low voices when they saw I wouldn’t give in.

I could hear snatches: "Maybe we went too far…" "She’ll cave… she has to."

I couldn’t be bothered with them and walked straight out of the booth.

I pushed past the group, the morning sunlight blinding. I could hear my pulse in my ears, but I kept walking.

At this moment, a staff member from the city agricultural bureau came over, holding a quarantine report, asking the exhibition representative to sign for confirmation.

He wore a blue windbreaker with the city seal. I recognized him from the extension office—Tommy Nguyen, always precise, always professional.

I looked at Mr. Jenkins. "Sorry, Maple Hollow is withdrawing from the festival. We won’t participate in the Strawberry Festival."

I tried to sound steady, but my hands shook. Jenkins’s face went slack with shock.

The staff frowned. "What do you mean? It’s about to start."

He double-checked the clipboard, as if my words didn’t compute.

The others were dumbfounded. Mr. Harris shouted, "Dr. Parker, what are you doing! We never said we wouldn’t participate."

His voice broke, panic lacing every syllable.

Mr. Jenkins stared at me, his eyes venomous.

He rolled his eyes and immediately shifted the blame. "Sir, it’s not that we don’t want to participate. The quarantine report needs the technical representative’s signature, but Dr. Parker refuses to cooperate."

His voice dripped with false innocence. I could see the gears turning, already plotting his next move.

I wouldn’t let them slander me, so I told the staff directly, "It’s not that I won’t sign, it’s that they don’t want to participate. They just made me sign this."

I handed over the contract. The staff looked through it, their face growing darker and darker.

His eyes widened as he read, jaw tightening. A hush fell over the group.

Mr. Jenkins panicked. "Sir, don’t listen to her. We were just discussing…"

His voice was shaky now, no longer confident.

The staff raised a hand to stop him. "Settle your own disputes. The market opens in less than half an hour. If you really won’t participate, I’ll report to Director Young."

Tommy’s tone left no room for argument. The stakes suddenly felt very real.

Mrs. Carter snorted, "Let her act. I don’t believe after working hard and spending money for a year, she’ll really leave."

She crossed her arms, as if daring me to walk away.

Now it was my turn to hurry them. "Don’t dawdle. If you’re leaving, hurry up. I need to notify Director Young."

I pulled out my phone again, dialing the director’s number. My voice was calm, but inside, my heart thundered.

Mr. Jenkins smirked. "Yes, yes, go to Director Young."

He led the way to Director Young’s temporary office, the folks swaggering behind.

They marched down the fairgrounds like they’d already won, laughter forced and brittle.

I laughed. They really thought I was bluffing. With morals like this, the town deserved to be poor forever.

For the first time in a year, I felt lighter. Their greed was no longer my problem.

On the way, I walked briskly, while the three of them lagged further and further behind.

The sun was warm on my face. I walked with purpose, not bothering to look back.

Mr. Harris and Mrs. Carter couldn’t hold it in, whispering in my ear, "Parker, $7,500 okay? You know the director, you can easily earn that. We’ve never seen so much money in our lives."

They sounded desperate, almost pleading. I kept my eyes on the horizon, refusing to answer.

I said nothing, went straight to Director Young, bowed and apologized, then explained that Maple Hollow was withdrawing from the Strawberry Festival. From now on, with unified state sales, I could no longer sign as the technical representative.

Director Young was an old expert, knew my father, and was surprised. "Maple Hollow’s variety is the best. Are you sure you want to withdraw? If you win, there will be a series of state support policies, and sales will be no problem. Parker, didn’t you always want to help farmers?"

His office was a converted trailer, paper coffee cups crowding his desk. His kind eyes softened. I felt the weight of a thousand unsaid things between us.

I nodded. "I’m really sorry, Director Young. Thank you for your support. There’s been a situation with the folks, I can’t go on. Sorry for the trouble."

My voice cracked, but I held my ground. Sometimes, walking away is the only way to hold onto your dignity.

Director Young said regretfully, "Alright, then write a statement and sign it. The state is very interested in Maple Hollow. I need to explain."

He pushed a legal pad toward me. I picked up the pen, the finality of it all settling over me.

When they heard the state was paying attention, they were all dumbfounded. Seeing me finish the statement and get ready to sign, Mr. Harris shouted, "Don’t withdraw! We never said we’d quit!"

His voice was high, almost frantic.

Mrs. Carter stomped anxiously. "The state knows about our town, we want to sell!"

She wrung her hands, eyes wide with fear.

Director Young frowned and pushed his glasses. "Hurry up and decide. The opening ceremony is about to start. If you want to participate, both the farmers and the technical representative must sign the quarantine report."

He tapped his clipboard, the tension mounting in the cramped space.

Mr. Harris snatched the quarantine report and signed it, handing it to the staff. "We sign!"

His voice cracked. The others crowded in, hoping to salvage something.

I shook my head expressionlessly.

I felt nothing—not anger, not sadness. Just a numb relief that it was finally over.

The whole room went silent.

You could hear the hum of the AC and the distant rumble of a tractor outside.

Mr. Harris and Mrs. Carter’s faces turned pale, Mr. Jenkins looked at me thoughtfully.

For the first time, I saw uncertainty in Jenkins’s eyes. He didn’t know what I would do next, and it scared him.

A few seconds later, Mr. Jenkins snorted, picked up the pen, and signed the withdrawal statement, challenging me. "Signed, it’s all over. Do you dare?"

He slammed the pen down, trying to call my bluff one last time.

I took the pen, hovered in the air, and sighed.

I looked at all of them—really looked—and realized I owed them nothing more.

Mr. Jenkins winked at Mrs. Carter and Mr. Harris. They also took the statement, signed it in turn, and handed it to me, then exchanged a smile, thinking I would back down.

They still didn’t believe I would leave. I almost felt sorry for them.

I couldn’t help but laugh, took the pen and quickly signed my name in one go, without any hesitation.

The sound of my pen on paper was the only answer I gave. My hand shook, but for the first time in months, it felt like my own.

Turning back, Mr. Jenkins’s mouth hung open in shock.

He finally realized he’d overplayed his hand. And I—at last—was free.