Georgia had ultimately been developed relatively early in North America, and was one of the original Thirteen Colonies.
That was why the farms here were unlike their western counterparts. A so-called medium-sized farm out west might stretch as far as the eye could see, while a large farm might include every mountain in sight within its boundaries.
Even so, Davis Farm, which could only be considered a small farm in the United States, covered more than ten acres including its buildings. Converted to metric units, that was roughly 4.5 hectares, or around 45,000 square meters.
To this group from the city, it was already an unimaginably vast area.
Davis Farm was surrounded only by a very simple fence, with no gate at the entrance. There was merely a mailbox standing there to let the mail carrier know that a household lived here.
Henry drove into the farm, just in time to pass a sedan heading out.
The male owner of the farm stood in front of the house. He was obviously seeing off the car that had just left rather than waiting to welcome them. Yet this sturdy man in his thirties wore a deeply worried expression, as if he had just sent away a calamity.
Henry parked the car, got out, and greeted him. "Good day. Are you Mr. Chuck Davis?"
"You are—ah, Mr. Brown, right? Old Hank said you would be coming." At the sight of that bald head, the sturdy man recalled who the new guest was. Though he returned the greeting politely, he showed none of the expected warmth.
The others got out of the car one after another, with Skye helping the old lady. Perhaps because there were few men among them, and the group consisted of women young and old, Chuck Davis's expression eased