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“Sanctioned?” Wyatt asked.

“If we can get it. Open if we can’t.”

“Which is it?”

“I’ll know after calls.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I know the business.”

“You competed in the business.”

“I spent ten years behind the chutes.”

Wyatt leaned back.

There it was. The old family arithmetic. “You need licensed production, county compliance, emergency services, security, sanitation, alcohol control if you serve it, food-vendor certificates, and a million-dollar liability policy at minimum.”

“Then I’ll get them.”

“By August fifteenth.”

“Yes.”

“That is less than two months.”

“I can count.”

“The hay crew remains assigned to hay.”

“I won’t touch them.”

“You will be in hay.”

“I’ll do both.”

“No.”

My jaw tightened. “You asked for outside income.”

“I did not ask you to compromise the crop that feeds the herd.”

“I said I’d do both.”

“And when?”

“Evenings.”

“You already work evenings.”

“Later evenings.”

Wyatt’s face closed by degrees. “This is not a circuit weekend where you arrive, ride, collect a check, and leave someone else to haul the panels.”

The words landed clean.

That was Wyatt’s gift. He never wasted the knife by waving it around first.