how this looks.”
I looked toward my cornfield.
Someone had cut pathways through roughly twenty-six acres.
Not harvested.
Cut.
Curved corridors disappeared between the stalks.
There were wooden arrows at intersections.
Decorative scarecrows.
Solar lights.
Someone had even erected a ten-foot wooden observation platform near the center.
“It looks,” I said, “like you built a corn maze on my farm.”
“We’re using an existing agricultural area for a community fundraiser.”
“You’re using my corn.”
“We have authorization.”
That got my attention.
“From whom?”
“The association’s legal counsel has reviewed everything.”
“Not what I asked.”
She smiled.
“Jack, maybe we shouldn’t do this standing beside the road.”
“I’m comfortable here.”
A box truck came rattling down the lane.
Trish waved it toward the barn.
I stepped into the lane.
The driver braked.
“What’s inside?”
Trish’s voice sharpened.
“Jack.”
“What’s inside?”
The driver lowered his window.
“Portable coolers and cider dispensers.”
“Delivery
