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The drive to see the country boys became routine. Every trip, a little bigger than the last, stacking higher and higher—until the day Grandpa decided it was time to change the rules.

Same front porch, same rocking chair, same overalls—every damn time. Six trips deep, and I’d never stepped foot inside his house. Never asked. Never invited. That wasn’t part of the deal.

Pull up. Straight to the barn. No detours. No extra words.

But this time was different.

“Damn boy, you back? Let’s sit for a minute. You want something to drink?”

What?

We never just sat on his porch. That was his domain. A throne overlooking the endless Kentucky farmland. I took a seat, forced my body to relax, but inside, my nerves were on fire. Something was off.

He rocked back and forth, eyes on the horizon. Still. Quiet. Calculating.

“Somethin’s gotta change here,” he finally said, still rocking. “You’re makin’ too many trips here. Bringin’ more attention to yourself in this town.”

That uneasy feeling tightened in my gut. My mind spiraled. What the fuck does that mean? Did I do something wrong? Are they about to take me out back and bury me in these woods?

I kept my face blank. Just nodded.

Grandpa exhaled, his voice slow, deliberate. “I know you don’t have enough money to buy a month’s worth of work, but let’s think on this. I’d say right now you’re movin’… what? 20, 25 pounds a month? That sound about right?”

Twenty years old, no real grasp of how much I’d been moving since I started running with this connect. I hadn’t stopped to count. Hadn’t even thought about it.

“Yeah,” I said, “sounds about right.”

He nodded, rocking once, twice. Then—the moment that changed everything.

“Aight then. I need you comin’ here less, but I need ya to keep movin’ more of this weed. So, I’m gonna start givin’ you credit. Whatever you can pay for, I’ll front you the other half.”

My brain exploded. My mind ran ahead—more money, bigger flips, stacking faster than ever. I wasn’t thinking about risk, wasn’t thinking about consequences.

Just opportunity.

“Absolutely!” I blurted out. “That would be amazing. Thank you!”

Grandpa leaned forward, joints creaking like the porch beneath him. “Well then,” he said, standing up slow, steady, “let’s go.”

The drive to the barn looked different this time. The woods felt brighter, greener—like I was seeing them for the first time. I was in my head, daydreaming my future, barely listening as Grandpa talked.

Pull up. Stop.

He turned to me, voice as even as ever. “We’re comin’ to the end of the last harvest. That means we won’t have any more ‘til later this year once we start cuttin’ the fresh crop. So I want you to get what we got. As much as you can.”

I opened my backpack, pulled out four rubber-banded stacks. Each knot $1,000, each stack $5,000—perfectly folded, stacked in rhythm like a deck of cards.

I placed four of those stacks on the table. Then added a loose $1,000 on top.

“I’ve got enough for 15 pounds.”

He nodded, didn’t even blink. “Okay. Grab thirty. You get the pick. Start sealing here before loading up.”

Thirty pounds.

I stood there for a second, processing. Holy fuck.

Then I got to work.

I went through the stash, pulling the best thirty pounds I could find. Vacuum-sealed each unit with precision, stacked them into my oversized Igloo cooler, neat and tight.

And just like that—the game changed.

This wasn’t just side money anymore. This was the money.

I was so deep in it, so busy stacking and moving, that I quit my two jobs. No more clocking in. No more paychecks.

I was in. Fully.

This was my job. My business. My life.

And I wasn’t slowing down.

Cheers to next week.