Alma Opened The Folder That Dorian Had Sent Without Me

The culture bank occupied two rooms in a shared agricultural testing building. There was no fine sign, just a buzzer and a printed note asking visitors to wipe their shoes.

Alma opened the door in a purple cardigan. Her silver curls were pinned back with two pencils.

"I made fresh coffee," she said. "It seemed like a day that needed witnesses."

"Coffee can't testify."

"Mine has seen enough."

She led me past the cold cabinets. Inside were nineteen lines I had developed or selected over seven years: oyster strains, shiitake crosses, backups of work that had once filled whole shelves.

The bank held them as my property. I paid $840 each year for storage and careful transfers onto fresh media. Creekstep had permission to use approved working cultures. It could not sell the collection, promise sole rights, or change the deposit account.

Alma set my agreement beside Dorian's email.

The email said, Please arrange release to the new owner following final payment.

"He attached this," she said.

Ridge Table Provisions had agreed to pay $72,000 for the breeding collection, both sterilizers, and a training package. An $18,000 deposit had reached Creekstep's account. The remaining $54,000 was due after delivery.

My training package required six weeks of my work.

"Apparently I'm included," I said.

"The only thing missing is your bow."

I laughed once, which hurt more than crying would have.

Dorian had signed as managing member. The space for the second owner's consent was blank. In an attached note, he'd said it was unnecessary because I was a former employee.

Alma pushed a chair close to mine.

I could see the old deposit dates through the clear cover of her binder. Each line carried two names: the person who made the transfer and the person who checked it. Nobody's memory had to carry the whole truth alone.

"Do you want your deposits transferred elsewhere?"

"No. They're safe here."

"Yes," she said. "They are."

She printed an account statement, the deposit list, and the release rules. She signed a statement that I alone controlled withdrawals. Then she stamped each copy with the date.

"That's a very loud little stamp," I said.

"I bought it for that reason."

I took the papers to a lawyer named Celia Ward, whose office overlooked a parking lot in downtown Wheeling. I had called from Alma's car park and asked for an appointment about recovering equipment.

By the time I finished, Celia had drawn three boxes on a yellow pad.

"Your property. Company property. Customer obligations," she said. "We keep the records clear for each. You own half the company. That doesn't make every company dollar yours."

"I know."

"And his half doesn't let him fire you from ownership."

She read the equipment schedule twice.

"He signed this?"

"At this table." I pointed to a photo clipped behind it. "We used my kitchen because the nursery had no heat yet."

The photo showed two mugs, a space heater, and Dorian's hand resting on the agreement.

Celia asked for $2,000 to begin. I paid from my emergency fund.

"First, a written demand and notice to preserve records," she said. "Then a court filing if he refuses access. We'll also give the buyer the ownership documents."

"He'll say I'm ruining his deal."

"You can only sell what you have authority to sell."

Her notice went out that afternoon. It listed both machine serial numbers and demanded that nothing be moved, erased, or discarded. It also told Dorian that my rights as a member remained in place.

I forwarded it to the Ridge Table contact on the agreement, a purchasing manager named Nolan Price.

He called before five.

"Mr. Keene told us you were stepping back for health reasons," he said.

"I'm healthy. I'm locked out."

There was a pause.

"We won't accept delivery while ownership is disputed."

"Thank you."

"We've already promised growers a supply plan."

"Then you need accurate information."

He asked whether Creekstep's current spawn was sound. I said I could speak for the lots I had made and signed off, but I needed access to the production records before saying more.

After that call, I checked the batch ledger backed up on my home computer. My last approved lot was CS-214. I had finished it twelve days earlier, before taking a week to help my sister move.

Three invoices in our shared sales inbox listed CS-221.

I searched my notes. No such lot.

At six, Dorian sent one sentence: You will be responsible for every dollar this costs me.

I saved it with the date.

Then my phone rang again. This time it was Ruth Bell, who grew oysters in a converted barn near Cameron.

"Shirin, I hate to bother you," she said. "But this week's spawn smells sour, and the grain's turning green."