"Then hear this option. I keep saying no, and you start believing me."
The silence changed. Fletcher didn't get loud when he could get precise.
"You're making this personal," he said.
"It's my land."
"It's a project conversation."
"It's my land."
"And you're not the only person who has to live with what happens around it."
"Then stop talking around it and say what you want."
"I want you at a table before every other table moves on without you."
"You mean before you move on without me."
Another pause.
When Fletcher spoke again, his voice had softened into something almost brotherly. "I'm not your enemy."
"Then stop circling my fence."
Fletcher exhaled. "For tonight, I'll let that go."
"That's generous."
"I'll be in town tomorrow."
"Congratulations."
"I may stop by."
"Don't."
"You can't avoid me forever."
"I'm not avoiding you. I'm telling you no in different locations."
This time, his laugh had less humor in it. "Get some rest, little brother."
"I'm thirty-six."
"You're still my little brother."
"Then act like it."
I ended the call before he could answer.
The quiet came back, but it didn't settle right. It sat over the beds, over the shed, over the line of my fence and the glint of water beyond it.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and went back to work.
There was always work.
Tools, plants, broken cages, and irrigation lines still needed hands, time, and enough patience not to make the problem worse.
