Page 106 of Rhodes

I write development value minus restricted value. "And that's just paper, my dad will say. A deduction is only worth income to write against."

"No, ma'am, here's where South Carolina helps you. The state lets you transfer the credit. That means if the owner can’t use all of it himself, he can sell the credit to another taxpayer. So yes, it can turn into actual cash, not just a smaller tax bill."

My pen stops. "Actual cash."

"Actual cash. And that bottom you restore stays productive. You farm it or lease it, same as always. The oyster ground keeps earning."

I sit back. This is the piece I've been missing for two months. We aren't saving it because it matters. We save it because the numbers say save it.

"So if we keep Oak Moss," I say quietly, but still out loud as if I'm talking to her. "We still get paid."

"That's exactly right."

I write down every word that matters.

"Now, ma'am, I want you honest going in. This easement is permanent. It runs with the land. Every owner after you is bound by it, forever. There's no removing it once it's granted."

"Okay." I write permanent and underline it three times.

"And it's only the legal landowner who can apply for it and have it put in place. It can't be a family member who wants it. It has to be the person holding title."

That's Grandbank. Not Dad, not me. Good. If this goes anywhere, the choice has to be his.

"Understood," I say as I pace around the room a lap before coming back to my notes and standing over them. "One more question. Can a family with a lease structure still do this?"

"Yes, ma'am, plenty do."

She gives me numbers, real ones, ranges I can plug into Oak Moss's acreage. I write them above the Rockville findings and the elevation profile and the reef sill cost, and weeks of work finally line up in one column.

"You've been so kind," I tell her.

"You've done your homework, ma'am. Most folks don't. That's what we're here for. Places like Wadmalaw don't stay rural by accident."

"I couldn't agree with you more. Thank you again."

"I'm happy to help."

I hang up and open my laptop and build the last page of it in plain language, putting dollars first, because I know at the end of the day, that's what's driving all of this.

The report and the profile went to him Monday. The environmental case was never going to be enough by itself. This gives him the other half. I attach it to the report and send it to my father directly, the way he asked me to do. I watch the little bar crawl until it's gone.

I add Grandbank to my list. I'll stop by Staples on the way home, print the whole thing, then mail him his own copy. Dad's opinion will carry more weight with him than mine ever will, but Grandbank owns Oak Moss. He deserves to have all the documentation, too.

I close the laptop and sit in the quiet carrel a minute longer. My father develops land and thinks in numbers. For the first time since Miss Ada's email landed, I have numbers.

My phone buzzes before I make it out of the library doors. I pull it out as the heavy door closes behind me to see it's my dad. He must be sitting at his computer.

I answer on the top step and drop onto the low brick wall by the entrance, backpack between my feet, students streaming past me in both directions.

"That was fast," I say.

"I read all of it." His voice is warm, easy, the voice he uses when he wants me to know he's on my side. "Read it twice, actually, Tilly. Every single page. It's compelling."

I don't say anything, because if I say anything, I'll say too much. I think he's pleased, and I don't want to ruin it.

"I want to run the credit piece past Wilkins before I get excited about it out loud," he says. "Tax is not my end of the pool. But if it holds up the way you've laid it out, that could change the arithmetic, and I'll be honest with you, I didn't think anything would."

"I have full confidence it will. The woman at the land trust walked me through it twice."