"How much of the 34-0-0 you got left in the shed, El?" the boy asked, leaning against the counter.
"It’s not just fertilizer when you get into the tons," Elias replied, walking toward the window. He looked out at the rolling hills, gold in the afternoon sun. "There’s a federal threshold. Anything over two thousand pounds—one thin ton—and the red flags start flying. The law says I have to keep records for two years. Every sale, every ounce, every face."
"Tell your dad to buy what he needs for the season and not a bag more," Elias said, returning to his stool. "Safety isn't just about the blast; it's about the eyes watching the pile. Now, you want that thresher belt or not?"
The bell above the door chimed, a lonely sound in the cavernous silence of Miller’s Farm Supply. Elias didn’t look up from his ledger. He knew the gait; it was young Miller, likely looking for a specialized lubricant or a part for the thresher that had been coughing gray smoke since Tuesday.