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I call. She picks up before the first ring finishes.

"A woman," she says. Not a question. A detonation.

"Keep your voice down. Dad's sleeping."

"Your father can sleep through a barn collapse. Talk. Who is she?"

Leaning against the counter, I give her the short version. The pumpkin. The crates. The dress. The knife. The flannel. The chili. The photographs. The cider press. Last night.

"She climbed your crates?"

"She destroyed my best Atlantic Giant."

"Did she apologize?"

"She offered to Venmo me."

My mother laughs. Full, loud, the same laugh I haven't heard from myself in years. "Oh, honey. And you made her chili?"

"She was cold. Her dress was ruined. I fed her."

"On a Wednesday. When the patch was closed."

"She didn't know it was closed."

"The sign says Saturdays, Deck."

"The gate was open."

A pause. My mother's pauses are surgical instruments. She uses them to let you hear how stupid you sound.

"So you fed a stranger your grandmother's chili recipe, gave her your flannel, put cider in her car, let her photograph the farm all week, and now she's asleep in your bed." Another pause. "And you called me at five in the morning because nothing's wrong."

"I called because I don't know what to do."

"About what?"

"She leaves. When the assignment's done, she goes to the next town, the next farm, the next story. That's her job. She travels."

"And?"

"And I'm a man who lives on a mountain. I don't travel. I don't leave. Everything I am is here."

"Baby." Her voice goes soft. My mother calls me baby when she's about to say something I need to hear and won't want to. "Beth left because she wanted a different life. That wasn't your fault. But you decided after Beth that nobody would ever fit here again, and that's a wall you built, not a fact."

"Mom."

"Has this girl seen the farm?"

"She's been here every day for a week."

"Does she like it?"

"She photographed it. She said it was beautiful. She sees it, Mom. She sees the land."

"Then maybe stop deciding she's going to leave before she decides it herself."

Down the hallway, the bed creaks. A soft groan. Footsteps on hardwood. The bathroom door closes.