Chapter 2 BONES OF THE EARTH

Ken stood at the doorway, where his father had been hours earlier. The storm had moved on, but it had left behind hell. The ground was a battlefield, ice chunks still scattered, some as big as Ken's hand, slowly melting into the churned mud, But it was the cornfield that knocked the air from his lungs. Just yesterday, tall green stalks had stretched in proud rows. Now it looked like a monster had stomped through in a rage. The stalks were flattened, the leaves shredded, the ears burst open and scattered like broken teeth. The whole place smelled like wet earth, broken plants, and despair.

His father wasn't with him. Tom Miller hadn't moved from the kitchen table since Ken and his mother dragged him inside the night before. He sat there now, still soaked, staring at a pile of bills like they'd personally punched him in the gut. The light from the single bulb above threw shadows deep into the lines of his face. He hadn't said a word.

Helen moved around him like a ghost. She swept up glass, plugged holes with towels, emptied buckets under the drips. Her eyes were red and raw, flicking from the ruined field to her husband, and back again. No one said it, but the question was there in the silence: What the hell are we supposed to do now?

Ken felt it like a stone on his chest. The storm hadn't just flattened the field. It had flattened his father. The man who'd worked through droughts, failed harvests, broken machines and broken bones-he was gone. All that was left was a man staring at bills like they were written in a language he'd never seen. Ken was only seventeen, but the weight landed squarely on his back.

He stepped out into the yard, boots sinking into the mess. Cold air cut through his shirt. He walked straight into the wreckage, each step heavier than the last. He bent down and picked up a corn cob-cracked, smashed, its white juice leaking out. Eight months of sweat and sleepless nights, gone. The loan due in three weeks? That was laughable now. The money he'd stashed from odd jobs, meant for Sharon's college application fees? Gone. The house on the ridge they used to talk about, the dogs, the kids, just ash now. He could still hear those dreams whispered under the stars, but they tasted bitter now.

A hand landed on his arm. He flinched, turning quickly.

Sharon stood there, pale and wide-eyed, dressed for work now, not for dreaming. She didn't say anything at first. She just looked at him, then at the field, and back again. Then she wrapped her arms around him, it wasn't soft, not shaky, just steady and sure. He leaned into her without thinking, and pressed his face into her hair. It still smelled like it always did - a little like soap, a little like the barn, warm and familiar. He didn't cry. He wanted to, but he couldn't. The tears just wouldn't come.

He felt empty, But her arms around him felt like the last thing keeping him from sinking.

"They're gone," he said. His voice cracked.

"Not all of it," she said. Her grip tightened. "Not you, not your folks, not this land." She nodded toward the mess. "It's bad, Ken, it's really bad, But it's still dirt. Dirt can grow things again."

He laughed bitterly. "With what? Money? A miracle? That tree out back didn't survive the hail either." He couldn't even take a glance back at the house, not with everything it reminded him of.

"We'll figure it out," she said, like she certain of that. She pointed to the tractor. "That still works, right? We start with that. We clear what we can, We help your mom, One thing at a time, Just like yesterday Leverage, remember?"

She was serious; Somehow, her gentleness in the face of all these kicked something in his chest-something small, but burning.

He nodded, swallowing the fear. "Alright, Let's see if the old girl fires up."

The rest of the day blurred. Ken got the tractor going. Its sputtering growl was the only proud sound left on the farm. He dragged the field, pulling up the broken stalks, trying to make sense of the wreckage. Sharon worked beside him, raking, clearing, boarding up the window, making coffee no one drank. Tom stayed at the table, still silent. Helen moved in short, automatic bursts, occasionally touching her husband's shoulder like she was reminding herself he was still alive.

By late afternoon, Ken was drained. The field looked like it had been tilled by ghosts, nothing left but scars. The house was patched, barely. Ken sat on the porch steps, coated in sweat and mud, and let the pain in his body distract him from the weight sitting deeply at his chest.

Sharon flopped down beside him, just as filthy. She pulled out her physics textbook, not to study, but to dig out the papers Helen had handed her, the insurance forms and loan documents.

"The hail damage is covered," she said quietly, flipping pages. "But the deductible's brutal, and the payout's based on what the crop could've been, not what it actually was, even with the check, it's not enough."

Ken didn't respond. He just leaned his head back against the post. The little spark of hope sputtered.

"So we lose the farm," he said.

"Not necessarily," she shot back, but even she didn't sound convinced. "Maybe the bank gives an extension? Disaster clause or something?"

He snorted. "Henderson? At First National? That man's been circling this place since the drought two years ago. He's a snake. No mercy, He wants the land."

She bit her lip, scanning again. Her finger stopped on a clause, "Who's Carl Metzger?"

Ken's gut clenched. "Metzger... he's not with the bank. Pa borrowed from him last fall to fix the combine. Henderson wouldn't budge, so he went... somewhere else."

"Somewhere else?"

"Metzger used to run with some rough folks out of Omaha. Now he buys up failing farms." Ken remembered the tattoos on the man's knuckles, the way he'd smiled while eyeing their barn. "The interest is... bad."

Sharon went pale. "What kind of bad?"

"The kind that doesn't involve courtrooms."

As the sky turned purple and orange, they ended up at Lovers' Ridge, where their dreams used to live. The oak tree stood tall, same as always, but everything else had changed. The land below was bruised, torn. The air smelled like rot and wet soil.

They didn't talk about college or futures or kids. They just sat, close together, leaning on each other.

"I don't know what to do,I'm just confused at this point," Ken whispered. "He's gone. Ma's hanging by a thread, Metzger's coming, What the hell do I do?"

Sharon turned to him. She didn't sugarcoat it. She didn't pretend everything would be fine. She looked him straight in the eye and said, "You breathe, Ken. One breath at a time, one bolt at a time, you fight, because that's who you are, That's what your dad raised you for, You're not alone cos I'm not going anywhere."

Her fingers were cold on his cheek, but her words were fire. A sob escaped him, it was raw and sharp. She pulled him in, holding him while the storm inside finally tore loose. Tears came for everything-his father, the field, the debt, the loss, It all poured out.

She held on, quiet and steady, her own tears soaking into his shirt.

When it passed, he lifted his head. Her face was close, tear-streaked but strong. The kiss they shared under the stars had been about dreams. This one was about survival. It wasn't soft, It was fierce, A claim, A promise.

They sat there for a long time, hands gripped together, watching the first stars come to view, But the peace didn't last.

When Ken opened the farmhouse door later that night, the tension hit him in the chest. Helen stood in the kitchen, she was looking pale and shaking. His father was still at the table, but not blank anymore. He looked horrified.

Across from him stood Carl Metzger.

He wasn't tall, but he took up space like he owned the room. Clean windbreaker, his boots were too polished for the mud outside, and his knuckles were tattooed. His eyes were small and sharp. He scanned the room, then settled his gaze on Tom Miller with something close to amusement.

"Evening, Tom," he said. "Heard the farm took a hit. Real shame."

Tom flinched like he'd been slapped.

Helen's voice was a whisper. "Mr. Metzger... the field's gone, everything's gone."

Metzger nodded, handing him a folded piece of paper. "Timing's rough, I get it. But that loan you took in October? It's due, Tuesday."

Ken stepped forward. "We need time. We've got insurance..."

"Not my problem," Metzger said, cutting him off. "Insurance is between you and whoever. I care about what's mine, with interest." He dropped the paper on the table; "Tuesday."

Helen broke down. "Please, there's nothing left, the bank..."

"Not my concern," Metzger said flatly. "Tom signed. I expect payment, If not, well..." He looked around the room. His eyes lingered on the window, then Helen. "There are other ways."

Tom finally stood. "Just a few months, Till spring."

Metzger chuckled. "I'll see you Tuesday, Tom. Don't make me bring the boys."

He turned and walked out like he'd just confirmed the weather, leaving fear and ruin in his wake.

The silence he left behind was worse than the storm. Helen collapsed into a chair, Tom stood frozen, shaking. Ken stared at the paper on the table and felt the cold get deep into his bones. The hail had broken the field, Metzger might break them all.

The real storm had just begun.