I gazed up at the tall building. God, I hate this place. I’m a farm boy. I’m used to wide-open spaces, so being in the concrete jungle that is New York City makes me uncomfortable. I glanced from left to right and couldn’t see a single tree in sight. What am I doing here?

My family has run Devereux Upstate for almost twenty years. I had been born in Nur-Sultan, Kazakhstan. My family had immigrated to the US when I was two, and we had ended up in Woodstock, New York, of all places. I think my parents had settled in Woodstock because of the famed music festival, but they had never admitted that. Thankfully, my parents had a background in farming and were hired on at Devereux Farms soon after we’d moved to the US. Before long, the farm manager had retired, and my parents had been asked to take over the farm’s management. When my father had died a year ago, the CEO of Devereux Farms, Jameson Devereux, asked me to continue their legacy.

I already had my Bachelor of Science in Agricultural Business and had been finishing my Master of Science in sustainable food and farming from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, so the timing was as perfect as it ever was going to be. Also, taking over the family business had meant I could keep my siblings, Ayala and Rasul, employed. Both of them had been born after my parents and I moved to Woodstock, so they were US citizens at birth. I hadn’t been, but my parents had become naturalized citizens when I was thirteen, which meant I’d become a naturalized citizen, too.

I’d received a phone call the previous afternoon from Jameson Devereux to attend a meeting at the Devereux Farms Corporate Headquarters first thing in the morning. Thankfully, there’d been an early morning bus out of Kingston, New York, at four-twenty a.m., which had gotten me into the Port Authority Bus Terminal by six-thirty.

I had spent the next thirty minutes making my way from the Port Authority to the Bush Tower. It hadn’t been a long walk, but the early morning heat and humidity had felt a bit oppressive already. If this meeting went according to plan, I’d be on a bus and back up in Woodstock long before the real heat of the day settled in over the city.

I scrutinized my khaki pants, button-down shirt and tennis shoes and felt like a fish out of water as I watched the corporate types around me walking into the building in their three-piece suits. I didn’t own a tie, but I owned a blazer that I’d thrown on. I was already regretting that decision, as the early morning heat and humidity was getting to me. I could only imagine how much it was going to suck when I left here later.

I walked into the building and headed over to the security station. “I have a meeting with Devereux Farms,” I told security.

“Name?” the guard asked without looking up.

“Talgat Kudaibergen.”

I watched as the security guard dialed a number. “Yes, I have a Talbert Kuda-tobagon here for a meeting with Devereux Farms.”

Part of me wanted to correct his butchering of my name, but sadly, I was used to people in the US being unable to pronounce it. For the record. it’s Tal—hey, I’m your pal—Gat, I’ve got your bat. As for my last name, it’s pronounced Ku-Day-Burr-Gin. It shouldn’t be complicated, but people screw it up so often that I’m used to telling people how to say it phonetically.

I took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor, got off the elevator and walked into the office. It was a little after seven-twenty a.m. by the time I got there, and the place was still empty. Thankfully, Mr. Devereux’s administrative assistant met me at the front door.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Kudaibergen. You’re a few minutes early for your seven-thirty meeting, so can I get you a coffee while you wait?”

“That would be amazing, Mrs. Frone.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black is fine.”

“Take a seat,” she said, gesturing toward a chair in her office.

I sat down and pulled out my cell phone to see if there was anything I needed to catch up on from the thirty minutes it had taken me to walk from the bus to here.

I was keeping my fingers crossed that today would be the day that Mr. Devereux officially made me the farm manager. Since my father had died the past year, I’d been basically doing the work of the farm manager without getting the actual compensation. I felt the light vibration of my phone as a text came in. I swiped on the message and saw it was from my baby sister, Ayala.

You’ve got this!

She was sure I was getting the promotion.

“Here you go,” Mrs. Frone said as she came back into the office and handed me a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.”

“How are things upstate?” she asked.

“Things are doing well. The trees are looking great. If the weather keeps up, we may have an early and extended harvest this year.”

Mrs. Frone walked over to the big door at the other end of her office and knocked before sticking her head inside and asking, “Are you ready for him?”

“Thank you, Molly,” I heard Mr. Devereux say from inside his office. “Please, let him in.”

She partially shut the door before turning to me and saying, “They’re ready for you.”

I grabbed my cup of coffee, walked over to the door, and Molly opened it for me as I walked inside.

Sitting at the table with Mr. Devereux was a face I’d never seen before. I put on my best fake smile.

“Mr. Kudaibergen,” Mr. Devereux began, “thank you for making it down so early and on such short notice.”

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“I want to introduce you to my grandson, Dale,” Mr. Devereux said, motioning to the young man sitting on the other side of the table.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Devereux,” I said politely to the younger man.

“Please, call me Dale,” he said as he stood and extended his hand.

I gripped it and shook. I was immediately taken aback by how smooth the man’s hand was. It’s one of those things you notice as a farm worker. There are people who work with their hands and there are people who don’t. Dale’s hands hadn’t seen an honest day’s work in his entire life. Ahh, what must it be like to live like a king?

With the niceties out of the way, Devereux Senior motioned for me to take a seat opposite him and his grandson.

“I’m guessing you’re wondering why I asked you here today?” Mr. Devereux inquired.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, as you know, Devereux Upstate has not been doing as well financially as it should be for a few years now.”

“Yes, sir. I’m still not sure how that’s possible.”

“I’m sure your people at the farm are doing an amazing job on the farming front,” Mr. Devereux replied, clearly trying to placate me.

I detest it when rich White people act like I’m a dumbass farmer. Most of them couldn’t understand the math and science related to modern farming to save their lives, but they all seem to think all we do is dig in the ground and water things.

“I’ve asked my grandson here,” Mr. Devereux continued as he motioned to Dale, “to come spend some time up on the farm.”

I hoped I masked the shock that came over me, but I clearly didn’t do it well, because Jameson tried to reassure me.

“Don’t worry. You’ll still be overseeing the day-to-day agricultural aspects of the farm. Dale will be handling the business parts.”

“Okay?” I said, less a statement and more a question.

“I’m sure you and Dale will find a symbiotic working relationship. Between your agricultural knowledge and his business sense, I’m sure you’ll have the farm producing record-breaking profits in no time.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, plastering on a thin-lipped smile.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Dale said. “I don’t want to be there any longer than I have to be. I’ll be the first to admit I know nothing about farms and farming, so I’m going to be depending on you to get me acclimated quickly. The faster we get the farm running smoothly, the sooner I can get out of your hair.”

Something about the way the young man stared at me made it very clear this wasn’t his idea. Dear God! I’m going to be babysitting a rich prick.