I went to East Ridge on the morning the crew finished its last shift.
The farm sat on a long rise above the coast, its fields bordered by a stand of wind-bent pines. The sale had closed the week before. The buyer planned to keep the tea plants, but not the processing line or all of the staff. We had offered transfers to twelve workers. Seven accepted. The rest chose severance or left for jobs in town.
Ruth waited for me by the loading doors. The crew had stacked their tools in neat rows beside the wall.
"I wish I'd found another way," I said.
"So do they."
One of the workers, a man named Greg, lifted his tool bag. "I'm not blaming you, Ms. Vale."
"I'm still sorry."
"Sorry doesn't pay rent."
"No."
He nodded once, then walked to his truck.
Becca had helped coordinate the transfers.
