"Good evening," Haley said, rising from her seat without a glance at the still-rambling Clint.
Ron turned in surprise at the greeting. It was his first ti eting Haley, so he paused, then introduced himself. "Evening. I'm Ron."
"I'm Haley." She extended her hand confidently—but imdiately regretted it.
What if his hands were still muddy? She wasn't sure she could shake it gracefully without flinching.
Her eyes locked onto his hand.
Then—dry, clean, and firm—it grasped hers.
She exhaled in relief and offered a bright smile.
Letting go, Ron turned toward Emily at the counter.
He hadn't planned to visit the saloon tonight—but thanks to his hardworking Rattata team (and their Run Away ability), they'd scoured the Mines with astonishing efficiency. When they returned, two clutched diamonds, others carried Athysts and so trinkets.
An unexpected windfall—so Ron declared a celebratory dinner.
The Rattata climbed onto the nu board via stools, earning the right to order as tonight's heroes.
After deliberation, they tapped spaghetti and pizza.
"Spaghetti and pizza?" Emily asked.
"Yes—one pizza, three spaghetti plates," Ron said, sitting down. He noticed Haley's lingering gaze and turned, puzzled.
Their sudden eye contact startled her. She jerked her eyes away—then defiantly looked back.
"Farm life seems to be treating you well?" she asked.
"Yeah," Ron nodded, taking the ice water Emily handed him. "Everyone's working hard. The farm's finally turning around."
"Oh." Haley twirled the necklace around her neck—and caught Emily's suspicious stare. She gave a strained smile.
She rarely ca to the saloon; Emily's curiosity was understandable.
To Haley, the place felt greasy—even with daily cleaning, the tables bore a permanent film of oil.
If she stained her clothes, she'd have to order new ones online.
"I'll have… a fruit salad," she told Emily.
"Got it—coming right up!" Emily passed the order to Gus and leaned close to Haley. "You've never set foot here before."
"As a birthday thank-you," Haley whispered, leaning in. "I wanted to see my sister's workplace. Is that so strange?"
"Hmm." Emily studied her—then accepted the explanation.
It couldn't be about Ron—they'd just t.
Ron hesitated—then rembered. "Happy belated birthday," he said.
He'd heard enough to pretend ignorance.
Too late for a gift now.
"Thank you," Haley bead. Her eyes scanned the Rattata line—then landed on the one that had delivered the athyst. "I loved the crystal you sent."
The Rattata looked up at her—then stood on its hind legs and bowed, just as before.
Clearly, sothing had happened that Ron didn't know about. He simply nodded, asking no questions.
Across the room, Clint finally finished his rambling—and realized Haley had moved to the counter.
The "pitiful" farr he'd described was now chatting easily with two girls.
Clint sobered instantly.
"…Did I say sothing awful?" he muttered, straining his foggy brain to recall.
"Pretty harsh," a nearby patron remarked. "You made him sound like Linus, living in the mountains."
"…" Clint flushed. "What's the difference between that farm and Linus's shack?"
(Of course, it depended on the person—so wouldn't care; others would rage. But this farr seed unbothered.)
After dinner, the Rattata waddled out of the saloon, bellies so full they tiptoed to avoid dragging them on the ground. They followed Ron in absurdly slow, waddling procession.
As Ron passed Clint—still slumped at his table—he greeted him.
For so reason, Ron saw guilt on Clint's face.
"G-good evening," Clint hiccuped. "I swear—I never ant… I an, I always believed you'd make that farm thrive!"
"…Thanks?" Ron said, bewildered, and left.
That night, none of the Pokémon returned to their Poké Balls.
Ron's small bed overflowed with bodies.
Luckily, it wasn't sumr—just barely tolerable.
---
The next morning—Spring 16—
Ron contorted himself to avoid Rattata wedged in every crevice and crawled out of bed.
"…I really need to build you all a bed."
He surveyed the chaos: Pokémon sprawled across the mattress, Combee asleep on the table, Gengar lurking in the shadows.
House expansion was urgent—not just for space, but for that kitchen.
He took a steadying breath, lit the campfire by the door, and tossed in potatoes.
Then he sliced bread, opened the jam jar.
The sweet aroma roused the sleeping crew.
Froakie wriggled out from between the pillow and wall, blinked blearily—then spotted Ron preparing breakfast.
"Froakie." It hopped to his feet.
"Morning," Ron said, handing it a jam-slathered slice. He watched the Rattata line up sleepily for their turn.
After a lively breakfast (even Gengar ate, mid-prank), they tidied the cabin. Ron stepped outside—and checked the mailbox.
Yesterday's profits had arrived.
After dinner expenses, 1,320G remained.
Just then—footsteps at the farm gate.
Ron turned to see Clint standing there.
Clint stared in awe. It hadn't been long since his last visit—but the farm had transford beyond recognition.
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