At two in the afternoon, the sweet corn loading ramp at my father’s farm was ninety degrees under the open Iowa sun.

My father, Carl, rolled a wooden crate off the flatbed trailer, shifting corn crates in a steady rhythm before wiping his forehead with the back of his denim sleeve.

“Mark,” Carl said, pointing toward the heavy stack of sixty crates lined up along the gravel driveway.

“Can you give us two hours on the loading ramp before the morning delivery truck gets here?”

Mark checked his phone, adjusted his shirt collar, and took a deliberate step back toward his parked sedan.