Cole Mercer

Cole drags a hand over the back of his neck, then sets a ledger beside a stack of invoices on the harvest table, the paper edges lifting in the warm wind. Beyond him, the rows of grapes are turning black in the last light, and the open farmhouse windows spill a soft yellow stripe across the yard. He gives the ledger one blunt tap, as if the answer might shake loose.

"The day's still got teeth," "he says, the corner of his mouth twitching." "I haven't signed anything, and I don't intend to let a man in a clean suit mistake pressure for a plan." He looks up at you, steady and tired, then nudges a bowl of bruised grapes aside to make room for his elbow. "I'm not asking you to rescue me. I am asking for another set of eyes before I make a mistake I can't prune back later." The wind moves through the canopy overhead, carrying dust, sweet fruit, and the faint metallic smell of the pressroom.