My Enemy Is Writing the Weather

How it begins

Nella wrote sunshine and watched rain spread across her desk.

Not a leak. Not condensation. A small, determined shower fell directly onto the word.

She blotted the paper.

The rain increased.

At the window, Ruhan Dorr held up a forecast stamped with the rival municipality's seal.

“What did you promise?” she called.

“Cloud cover.”

“For whom?”

“That depends what you promised.”

She let him in because the alternative was shouting professional accusations into a weather system already taking things personally.

Ruhan placed his forecast beside hers.

The two pages pulled toward each other.

Outside, half the valley brightened. The other half vanished beneath a low gray bank. Between them, a narrow strip of hail began moving toward the market.

Nella put a paperweight on both documents.

“Who signed yours?”

“The orchard council.”

“Mine is for the grain growers.”

“They're selling opposite afternoons.”

“They usually do.”

Neither smiled.

For six years they had competed for public contracts. Nella wrote precise forecasts. Ruhan wrote cautious ones. She accused him of hiding behind uncertainty. He accused her employers of treating every field like the largest customer's field.

Now a hailstone struck her ink bottle.

Ruhan caught it before it overturned.

His hand remained beside hers on the desk. Nella noticed the small scar across one knuckle, the ink rubbed into his sleeve and the careful way he waited before moving her paper.

“What if we withdraw both?” she asked.

“Then the valley gets whatever arrives.”

“That might be worse.”

“Yes.”

The honesty unsettled her more than an argument.

From the street came a farmer's angry voice, demanding to know why his cart was freezing while the bakery's windows glowed with sun.

Nella took out a clean sheet.

“No employer first,” she said.

Ruhan sat beside her.

For once, they began with the valley rather than the signature that would pay for it.