Now he was complaining they were not solving enough of it fast enough.
Hannah smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you think you won.”
“I don’t think I won.”
“Good.”
She looked toward the resting flock.
“But you just asked when they could go back to work.”
Jack walked away.
That was enough victory for one morning.
At noon, the rain eased briefly.
The vineyard steamed beneath a pale gray sky.
Hannah ate a sandwich while reviewing counts at the equipment shed.
Her mother, Linda Miller, brought coffee.
Linda had remained mostly neutral during the duck argument.
Not because she lacked an opinion.
Because forty years of marriage had taught her when Jack needed to lose a fight slowly.
She handed Hannah the mug.
“How bad?”
“What?”
“Your father.”
Hannah smiled.
“Better.”
“Meaning?”
“He asked if the ducks could work longer.”
Linda laughed.
“That man.”
“He still thinks I’m going to destroy something.”
“He has spent his life expecting the farm to be one mistake away from disappearing.”
Hannah looked toward the vines.
“I know.”
Linda sat beside her.
“That fear paid your college tuition.”
“I know.”
“It also makes him impossible.”
“I know.”
They drank quietly.
Linda looked at the notebook.
“Do you think it’s working?”
“Yes.”
Hannah answered without hesitation this time.
Then added, “Enough to continue.”
“That sounds very scientific.”
“It means I’m terrified.”
Linda smiled.
“Better.”
Hannah laughed.
“Dad said the same thing yesterday when I told him I wasn’t sure.”
“He trusts uncertainty.”
“Because he has so much of it.”
“Exactly.”
The ducks returned to the vineyard at 12:40.
This time Jack opened the gate.
Hannah watched him.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m helping.”
“I can see.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Hannah smiled.
“Welcome to the duck program.”
Jack pointed at her.
“I can still cancel the duck program.”
“You can’t even catch Forklift.”
The duck in question slipped between his boots.
Hannah burst out laughing.
Jack turned.
“Come back here!”
The neighbors laughed too.
Even Calvin.
The afternoon became stranger.
People started arriving.
Word had spread.
Two growers from neighboring properties.
An extension technician.
A local vineyard manager.
Someone from a winery ten miles away.
By one-thirty, fourteen people stood along the vineyard access lane watching ducks eat snails.
Jack looked horrified.
“This is not a tourist attraction.”
Calvin replied, “You should charge admission.”
Hannah said, “That’s actually not terrible.”
Jack stared at her.
“No.”
She grinned.
The extension technician was Dr. Megan Lee, thirty-four, an integrated pest-management specialist who had answered several of Hannah’s questions during winter.
Megan walked with Hannah through a finished row.
“You have pre-release counts?”
“Yes.”
“Untreated rows?”
“Yes.”
“Any exclusion area inside the treated block?”
Hannah nodded.
“Row eleven. Ducks can’t enter.”
“Excellent.”
Jack looked between them.
“You planned a duck exclusion row?”
Hannah said, “Control.”
“You have too much education.”
Megan laughed.
“Mr. Miller, this is why you sent her to Oregon State.”
“I sent her there to learn vineyards.”
“She did.”
Jack looked toward the ducks.
“That remains under review.”
Megan crouched beside a vine.
She counted.
Then moved to the control row.
More snails.
The difference was visible.
Still, Megan remained cautious.
“One day isn’t enough.”
Hannah nodded.
“Agreed.”
Jack asked, “How many days?”
“Depends what question you’re asking.”
Jack groaned.
Megan smiled.
“If the question is whether ducks can eat snails here, you already know.”
“They can.”
“Yes.”
“If the question is whether they reduce economic damage enough to replace or supplement chemical control across the season, that takes longer.”
Jack nodded.
That answer he understood.
Farm decisions rarely offered complete proof.
They offered enough evidence for the next decision.
At 2:06, the wind picked up.
Hannah stopped the flock early.
Several spectators protested.
She ignored them.
Dark clouds had formed over the western ridge.
The farm weather station showed rapidly falling pressure.
Jack looked at the data.
“You’re right.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow.
“Could you repeat that?”
“No.”
“I didn’t hear.”
“You’ll never hear it again.”
Together they guided the flock home.
The ducks resisted.
Apparently the vineyard had become more interesting than their enclosure.
Forklift escaped again.
Jack caught it this time.
He held the duck beneath one arm.
Hannah stared.
Jack said, “Not one word.”
“You’re holding Forklift.”
“Not one.”
Forklift quacked.
Hannah laughed.
At 2:41, the last gate closed.
At 3:07, the storm arrived.
Heavy rain hammered the metal roofs.
Wind bent the young maple beside the tasting room.
Water rushed through vineyard drainage channels.
Jack stood inside the equipment shed watching.
Hannah joined him.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”
She leaned against the wall.
He continued.
“If these storms keep stacking up, disease pressure is going to explode.”
“I know.”
“Spray window tomorrow morning might disappear.”
“I know.”
“Road in the lower block is already soft.”
“I know.”
Jack looked at her.
“You always say you know.”
“Would you prefer surprise?”
He almost smiled.
Then looked toward the duck enclosure.
“They’re fine?”
“Dry enough.”
“Enough?”
“They’re ducks, Dad.”
He gave her a look.
She laughed.
That evening Hannah checked the vine rows after rain intensity dropped.
The treated rows showed dramatically fewer visible snails.
The control row remained heavily populated.
She photographed both.
Recorded conditions.
Marked time.
No obvious vine damage from ducks.
Some manure accumulation near the lane entrance.
Manageable.
She wrote:
Day 1 result: strong snail predation observed. No significant vine damage visible. Distribution uneven near release point. Need shorter holding time at gate.
Jack stood behind her.
“What’s your conclusion?”
“Continue tomorrow.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s enough.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
The following morning, Jack was awake before Hannah.
At 5:48, she walked toward the duck pen.
He was already there.
Her father stood in rain pants holding the white feed bucket.
Hannah stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For?”
“The ducks.”
She looked around.
“You stole my bucket.”
“It’s a bucket.”
“It’s my duck bucket.”
Jack sighed.
“Hannah.”
She smiled.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say what?”
“That you like them.”
“I absolutely do not like them.”
Forklift waddled toward him.
Jack dropped a small handful of feed.
Hannah stared.
“Traitor.”
Jack pointed at the duck.
“He was bothering me.”