The wind cut straight through my wool coat.

I pulled my collar up around my neck.

More than sixty people were already gathered outside.

Men in heavy Carhartt jackets held steaming cups of gas station coffee.

Several people in expensive tailored coats stood apart from the local farmers.

“I recognize three of those trucks from the corporate farm management groups down south,” Luke said.

He buried his hands deep in his coat pockets.

“They don’t buy land to live on,” I said.