AN: This is for Martha because I know how much this scene bothers her. Here is your moment to challenge the lack of reality. If it makes you feel better, you can let it be your head cannon that they did something appropriate and just did not bother to show it on the screen. The phrase "like silage sludge" is credited to her in an agitated moment. I did not include her insistence that field corn is not yummy because let's be honest . . . it is not like they have a lot of options (and it is edible). If you want to cover your eyes and pretend that what Stanley had was actually acres and acres of sweet corn, then you go ahead and do that. :)

How Someone Never Asked a Question

"Where is all of this corn going?" She asked wiping her hand across her forehead to remove the sweat that was threatening to drip down into her eyes.

"Into the tubs," the man across from her answered with a glance between her and the one at her feet as if the answer to her question should have been obvious.

She rolled her eyes in response as she rolled her shoulders before reaching out for another ear. "I meant after we get it picked," she clarified.

"I guess they are taking the tubs into one of the barns or something," he answered shrugging his shoulders as he slid his mostly empty container a little further down the row with his foot.

"And then?" She requested sounding as if she was teetering on the edge of impatience.

"And then what?" He responded. She stared at him blankly for a moment before the expression on her face morphed into one of concern.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"It can't stay like that," she announced. "What are they going to do with it after we get it picked?"

"These have lids," he responded kicking the container a little further as he spoke. "That should keep the rodents out of it." The look on her face was out and out disbelief.

"It will go bad," she said slowly as if speaking to someone that had difficulty understanding the language. "It can't just stay in those tubs."

"Really?" He asked.

"How do you not know that?" She demanded.

"Never done much with corn before," he replied. "Mine comes in cans." She shook her head as if to clear it from some disturbing thoughts and looked over in the direction of the filled tubs that did not seem to be moving anywhere at the moment.

"Have you heard anyone say anything about other work day projects?" She asked.

"Nope," he replied, "they just said to show up today because the corn needed picking. I'm sure that it will be okay. If you say that it can't stay in the tubs . . .," he began.

"It can't!" She insisted (interrupting his sentence). "It'll be . . . like silage sludge." He looked at her blankly, and she sighed. "Like you could maybe feed it to pigs, but you aren't going to get any other use out of it." Seeing that he did not seem to be following what it was that she was attempting to explain, she tried again. "It will be rotten if you leave it in those. It can't just stay like that. People won't be able to eat it."

"Well, then I'm sure that they have some sort of a plan," he attempted to reassure her gesturing between her container and his to indicate that she was starting to fall behind. She started moving again but kept glancing back toward the people at the edge of the field with a narrow eyed, suspicious look.

"I would certainly hope so," she muttered. She did not look overly reassured. She appeared to be making some sort of calculations in her head, but she did not speak as the two of them continued to make their way down the rows filling the tubs as they went. Every once in a while, she muttered something under her breath. It was never loud enough for him to discern what it was that she was saying, but he was not sorry to have had the conversation come to an end.

He certainly did not know enough about corn to know whether or not she was right in her assertions about proper storage, but he supposed that it made sense that things would eventually go bad if left to their own devices. He had had plenty of things in the back of his fridge over the years to demonstrate that concept for him. He, unlike her apparently, was not seeing any cause for concern over the situation. After all, they had gone to all of the trouble of organizing this town wide group picking project. Surely, they knew what they were doing enough to have planned for the next step of the process. Someone had to have a plan. Someone had to know what it was that they were doing. They would not have the town do all of this work to preserve what they had all been told was a vital resource and then not . . . you know . . . actually preserve it. There was nothing to worry about. He was not the one in charge, but he had every confidence that whoever it was who was actually in charge knew what it was that they were doing.

She was not seeing anything that was making her feel any better. Filled tubs went in the back of trucks and on trailers. She had yet to spot anyone doing anything else or making any moves toward doing anything else with the piles and piles of corn that were being brought out of the fields. She knew that just because she was not seeing any evidence of the next step of the process did not mean that it was not there, but she was not about to accept that on faith. She had some questions to be asking. She just needed to decide which of the people in the field to single out for the start of her inquiries.