Come Hell or High Water | mxm

1.2

1.2

Field visits had always been the best part of Sam's job.

As he soared down the township road with folk music haunting in the speakers, gravel dust soft in the rearview mirror, solitude was a comforting lightness in his chest. Endless prairie rippled beyond the windshield, and he felt the ache in his heart easing a little more with every kilometer flying past.

On this summer day, the vast sky gleamed incandescently pale overhead. Canola and wheat flowed golden on either side of the road, pumpjacks nodding lazily at intervals amongst the undulating stalks. A forest of gleaming white windmills appeared, whirling harmonically, then shrank again behind.

Thoughts drifting, Sam didn't realize the approaching farm was his destination until the unassuming blue sign popped up in the ditch, numbers gleaming white. A blazing sun hung a hand's breadth above the horizon as he slammed on the brakes and yanked at the wheel to make the sharp turn; the pedal juddered under his foot, tires spitting gravel.

The little silver hatchback bumped jarringly along the deeply rutted drive until he pulled aside onto a small flat patch of freshly mown grass and cut the engine. Music and air conditioning left an echo in the sudden silence.

Heat pressed into him when he opened the door, sweat popping out all over his skin as he stepped out and shaded his eyes with a hand.

Vehicles cluttered the dusty farmyard, cars and trucks and farm equipment in various states of disrepair. Beyond, a meandering stone path emerged from the grass, leading to a small house. Cheerful blue and green paint peeled under sagging eaves. Sunflowers bobbed languidly below white-trimmed windows. On the other side of the yard, an enormous greenhouse glittered in the sun; behind it towered a pair of corrugated-steel silos. Fencing all was a tidy rectangle of coarse-barked green poplars and short-needled blue spruce, planted a generation ago to deflect the wind that prowled ceaselessly across the rippling prairies.

On this day, gentle breeze sighing through the emerald leaves of the windbreak was the loudest sound until Sam slammed the car door behind him.

A man was already emerging from under the raised hood of a rust-scarred blue pickup truck, frowning. He was younger than Sam by at least a couple years, late twenties at the oldest; he wore long brown hair in a low ponytail and a full beard bristled, unruly, on his chin. A grease-spotted white t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders above faded jeans and scuffed work boots.

Wiping his hands on a dirty cloth, he squinted at Sam, taking in crisp green golf shirt, black hair in a short, side-swept haircut, clean white sneakers barely brushed with dust.

Sam put on his best smile as he approached. Tucking his briefcase up under his arm and pulling off gold-wire aviator sunglasses with the left, he held out his right hand.

"Gordon Keller? I'm Sam Chen, with Vivid Energy. We spoke on the phone."

They shook firmly, callused fingers rough against Sam's.

"Just Gord is fine," he said, his voice deep and smooth. "Yer late."

Sam smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I got held up at my last stop. Is this a bad time? We can reschedule for tomorrow if you'd prefer. I'm staying in town tonight, so it would be no problem to get out here first thing in the morning."

Gord shook his head. "Let's get this over with. C'mon inside."

Leaving his tools on the ground and the hood up on the truck, he led the way up the path, Sam talking behind him the whole way.

"Thanks, this sun is roasting me alive. Weather's been oppressive lately. Nice change from all the rain this spring, I guess." Sam laughed.

They stepped inside and pulled off their footwear as eyes adjusted to dim light. Gord's boots thumped onto the mat.