The old man looked at Ewan for a long while, as if weighing whether this young Omega was foolish or downright crazy. Coal dust coated the man's face, his wrinkles so black it seemed as though someone had drawn them on with charcoal.
"Three generations, boy," he repeated, his voice dropping lower. "Back when my grandfather hauled salt through here, this hill already had warning signs posted. Anyone unlucky enough to drop seeds would just get yellow sprouts that died off in a week. And the one who planted them would cough the whole winter."
"I believe you, sir." Ewan nodded. "That is why I am not planting food right away. This grass is not for eating; it goes down first to loosen the soil, and then it gets cut down."
"Grow it just to cut it down?"
"Yes, this soil has been starving for a long time, sir. We have to feed it first before we can expect it to feed us."
