The Last Harvest(21)

I finally call out “when” at ten and she drops the sticker bag and runs over to me, squeezing me exactly thirty-four times. One squeeze for each remaining acre. “We’re almost there.”

“I just hope the frost will hold off a few more days.”

“It will. It has to.”

“Clay?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I’ve got a plate for you. Special treat.”

Noodle takes my hand and skips me into the kitchen. It smells amazing, like charcoal and salt and spices.

“Go on, sit down.” Mom bullies me into my chair. Guess it was a triumph to get her to eat without me. Now, I just have to work on getting her to let me fix my own plate.

Noodle hops around the table, still beaming from our victory. Mom pulls the plate from the oven and presents it to me.

My stomach drops.

“We’ve got a baked potato loaded with butter and bacon bits and those green beans with the little slivers of almonds, just like you like,” she says eagerly.

But all I can see is the big-ass steak in the center of my plate, red juice leaking from the bottom, infecting everything around it. My mind goes back to the breeding barn—my dad surrounded by calf fetuses. Ali pushing through that dead cow, covered in blood.

“Where’d this come from?” I manage to ask, bile burning the back of my throat.

“Tyler Neely brought them over,” Mom says. “Last night was the annual dinner at the Preservation Society, before the homecoming game. I can’t believe we missed it. Your dad must’ve forgot, too. We’re slipping in our old age. Anyhoo, they had some left over and thought we might enjoy them.”

“Tyler was here.” I stab the meat with my fork. “And he brought us steaks.”

Noodle looks at me quizzically, her chin resting in her hands. I want to scream—throw the steak against the wall—but I can’t make a scene.

I poke at it a few times and glance anxiously at the clock. “Tell you what.” I keep my voice as calm and even as possible. “Can you wrap this up for me?”

“Oh, is it not cooked right?” Mom comes over to check, but she’s not really paying attention, she’s staring off toward the living room.

“No, it’s perfect.” I force a smile for Noodle’s benefit. “I just kind of feel like getting some fried chicken from the Piggly Wiggly.”

“Do you hear that?” Mom asks, cocking her head at a strange angle.

“What, the clock?”

Her gaze shifts to the kitchen clock. “Oh, you’re going to be late for the game. You better hurry up.”

“Yeah, sure.” I get up from the table, giving Noodle a sympathetic wink.

“Can I come?” Noodle asks.

“No.” I tickle her under her chin. “You’ve got to get ready for bed. You think you get all those smarts by staying up late? And we need you as smart as you can be. Who else would keep this farm running?”

She nods. “You’ve got a point.”

*

AS SOON as I pull onto Route 17, I reach for the stereo, only to find the gaping hole where it used to be. “Idiot!” I scream at the top of my lungs in frustration.

I know Tyler brought over those steaks just to mess with me. He must’ve finally heard about me going over to Sheriff’s last night. About the cow.

I pull into the empty lot with six minutes to spare. I’m not even hungry, but if I come back empty-handed, Noodle might start worrying. She’s been through enough. I duck in under the disapproving eye of Mr. Cox, the store manager. “Make it quick.”

He coached my Pee Wee team in third and fourth grade. Last name, Cox, first name, Richard. It was just too easy. His parents must’ve hated his guts.

All the deli employees have already gone home. One chicken meal sits baking away under a heat lamp. Grease oozes from the container, but anything’s better than Neely’s steak.

I walk up to the register and pull out the bills from my back pocket. They’re all tangled up with Noodle’s school letter and the note she left in my shoe last night.

He turns away from the little radio broadcasting the game with an irritated sigh. “Just take it. Would’ve thrown it out anyhow.”

“Thanks, Mr. Cox.”

He glares at me, unsure if I’m making fun of him or not.

“Big Ben and Wilson are managing to hold them off, but the pressure’s on—and that Neely kid’s been dropping the ball all night. Can’t buy an arm. Not like yours. That’s a gift from God. Shame you’re not playing anymore. We need a killer out there.”

I look at him sharply, but he’s lost in the game.

The neon lights shut off before I’m even out the door.

“Nice to see you, too, Dick Cox,” I mutter as I step into the cold air.

It’s dark, but I’ve got a little light from the Midland Stadium in the distance. If I listen real close I can hear the faint roar of the crowd. It makes my hand ache, like I should be holding the ball.

I open my truck door, setting the chicken dinner on the seat. I start to cram all the stuff back in my pocket when Noodle’s note drops to the ground. I pick it up and unfold it. I could use a little cheering up. I lean forward to read it in the small overhead light.

Written in Noodle’s handwriting, surrounded by sparkly heart stickers, are the words, “He’s coming.” My blood turns to ice in my veins. I start to shake so hard I can hardly hang on to the note.