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producer of eggs in the United States, and with more than five hundred thousand dozen shipped per week, Bob's local poultry operation was one of the state's largest. It was also where most of Kyle's feed corn crop ended up. Chickens ate a lot. Thank God.
    And, even in a struggling economy, egg consumption hadn't declined.
    "Business is good," Bob said, walking over to the stall where Lillie had just begun making a ruckus. She was still a little territorial when it came to her two-week-old son, Rad. The colt stood at the door of the stall, his head tilted curiously toward the new voice. "We've hired a couple of extra hands for city leaf pickup in the fall and have more orders for compost than we're going to be able to fill." Bob rubbed Rad's nose. "He's a good-looking lad," he said. "Right up to your old man's standards."
    Kyle's goal was to fill his father's horse barn to capacity, then sell the good-quality quarter horses to families and farms across Ohio, just as his father had done.
    "He's a start," Kyle said, though he wasn't sure he planned to sell the colt. Sam had taken a liking to the little guy. Which was why his name was Radiance. And while he could in no way refer to a colt of his by such a ridiculous name, even if Sam had chosen it, he could live with the shortened version.
    "Has Grandpa been out to see him?"
    "Of course," Kyle said. "I carried him out here the night she foaled. And a couple of times since. Each time he thinks it's the first he's seen the colt. But he knows Lillie."
    "It's so hard..." Bob broke off. "Such a shame."
    Grandpa was ninety-two. He'd lived a long, good life. Kyle didn't want anyone feeling sorry for either of them.
    "So what's up?" He studied his friend. Bob was a busy man. Too busy to stop by just to shoot the breeze.
    Bob stared through the large open window at the back of the barn, and Kyle wondered if he was about to tell him he was sick. The man's jeans were hanging on him. And the forearms exposed by his rolled sleeves looked almost emaciated.
    God, how long had it been since he'd seen the older man? Six months? A year? Kyle couldn't remember if Bob had been around when he'd stopped by the Branson farm last fall to finalize the details of a corn delivery.
    And it wasn't as if the man came by to see Grandpa--which was how Kyle kept up most of his contacts these days.
    His grandfather didn't like to leave the farm, and Kyle didn't like to leave Grandpa.
    Bob was one of those people who felt uncomfortable seeing Kyle's grandfather in his current state.
    Scared was more like it, Kyle figured. And he understood.
    "Let's take a walk," Bob said, convincing Kyle that bad news was imminent. Let whatever disease he had be treatable, Kyle offered up by habit, though he was no longer sure anyone was listening.
    Except maybe his old man.
    "Show me the field."
    "The field" was Kyle's experiment. His attempt to grow a hybrid feed corn that would produce double the starch per kernel--and cut in half the amount of corn necessary to produce a gallon of ethanol.
    A dream that had become his last-ditch effort to save the farm, his birthright. Not that anyone else knew that.
    Kyle had made two big mistakes in his life--both with women--and was in debt up to his throat. Seeing no other way out, he'd spent the last of his savings and hocked the farm on a chance to make a mint on a hybrid crop. If this year's crop didn't show some measure of success, he might have gambled himself right into bankruptcy court.
    A five-minute walk later and they were standing in the field. Bob pulled back the shock on a ripe ear of corn, fingering one of the soon-to-be-plump kernels of corn he'd exposed. The man might be a chicken farmer, but he knew corn. And soybeans, too. He grew close to five hundred acres of each.
    "One ear per stalk" was all Bob said. One ear was typical for feed corn--unlike it's cousin, sweet corn, which had multiple ears.
    "Can't afford to share the nutrients."
    "I thought soaking the seeds was