Walking the rows of his family’s vineyard, River’s Bend, Adam felt the world on his shoulders. He passed between the rows, the sun beating down overhead. Where had this warmth and dryness been when they’d needed it? Now, though, it was too late: the amount of buds that should’ve been on the vines was fewer even than last year. Fewer buds meant fewer grapes, and without grapes, little wine could result.Adam wiped his brow. The humidity was creeping up already, despite it being early morning. It would probably reach close to one hundred degrees, as was common in the middle of June. Mosquitoes buzzed about, but he hardly noticed them. He probably should’ve doused himself in bug spray before coming out, but what were a few mosquito bites? He was used to them by now. Any Missouri country boy was used to bugs biting and buzzing and flying about.At any rate, the bugs weren’t the problem. His sad grape crop was—the extensive rains of March and April had devastated the vines, causing a lot
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