GED RLA Practice Test 3

MEMO

To: All Customer Care Agents and Team Leads From: Danielle Ruiz, Director of Customer Care, Brightline Home Internet Date: March 3 Subject: New "Solve It Once" standards begin April 7

(1) Over the past year, our customer satisfaction score has slipped from 81 percent to 74 percent. When we looked closely at the comments behind those numbers, one complaint stood out above all others: customers are tired of explaining the same problem again and again. In our review of 2,000 recorded calls, the average customer with an unresolved issue contacted us 3.4 times before the problem was fixed, and nearly half of those customers were transferred at least once. Starting April 7, every agent will follow a new set of standards we are calling "Solve It Once."

(2) The idea behind Solve It Once is simple. The first agent who speaks with a customer owns that customer's problem until it is resolved or properly handed off. Owning a problem does not mean you must fix everything yourself. It means the customer should never have to start over.

(3) Under the new standards, each call should follow four steps. First, greet the customer and confirm the account. Second, listen to the full description of the problem before offering a solution, and repeat the problem back in your own words so the customer knows you understood. Third, either resolve the issue or, if you cannot, create a case note that summarizes the problem and what has already been tried. Finally, before ending the call, tell the customer exactly what will happen next and when.

(4) Transfers will still be necessary at times, especially for billing disputes and for repairs that require a field technician. However, the way we transfer will change. Agents may no longer use "cold transfers," in which a caller is placed in a new queue with no explanation. Instead, you will use a "warm transfer": stay on the line, introduce the customer to the next agent, and summarize the issue so the customer does not have to repeat it.

(5) We are also giving you more power to settle problems on the spot. Beginning April 7, agents may issue service credits of up to $40 without a supervisor's approval, up from the current limit of $15. Team leads may approve credits of up to $150. We trust your judgment. Please use credits when our mistake has cost a customer time or money, not simply to end a difficult call.

(6) Finally, we will change how we measure performance. For years, the number we watched most closely was average call length, and agents were encouraged to keep calls under six minutes. That target pushed some agents to rush customers off the phone, which often led to repeat calls. Starting in April, call length will no longer appear on individual scorecards. Instead, we will track "first-contact resolution," the percentage of problems solved without the customer needing to contact us again.

(7) We know these changes are significant. All agents will complete a two-hour training session during a scheduled shift between March 17 and March 28; your team lead will post the schedule by Friday. If you have questions or suggestions, please send them to the Customer Care Standards inbox. Several ideas in this plan, including the warm-transfer rule, came from agents themselves, and we want to keep hearing from you.

MEMO

To: All Customer Care Agents and Team Leads From: Danielle Ruiz, Director of Customer Care, Brightline Home Internet Date: March 3 Subject: New "Solve It Once" standards begin April 7

(1) Over the past year, our customer satisfaction score has slipped from 81 percent to 74 percent. When we looked closely at the comments behind those numbers, one complaint stood out above all others: customers are tired of explaining the same problem again and again. In our review of 2,000 recorded calls, the average customer with an unresolved issue contacted us 3.4 times before the problem was fixed, and nearly half of those customers were transferred at least once. Starting April 7, every agent will follow a new set of standards we are calling "Solve It Once."

(2) The idea behind Solve It Once is simple. The first agent who speaks with a customer owns that customer's problem until it is resolved or properly handed off. Owning a problem does not mean you must fix everything yourself. It means the customer should never have to start over.

(3) Under the new standards, each call should follow four steps. First, greet the customer and confirm the account. Second, listen to the full description of the problem before offering a solution, and repeat the problem back in your own words so the customer knows you understood. Third, either resolve the issue or, if you cannot, create a case note that summarizes the problem and what has already been tried. Finally, before ending the call, tell the customer exactly what will happen next and when.

(4) Transfers will still be necessary at times, especially for billing disputes and for repairs that require a field technician. However, the way we transfer will change. Agents may no longer use "cold transfers," in which a caller is placed in a new queue with no explanation. Instead, you will use a "warm transfer": stay on the line, introduce the customer to the next agent, and summarize the issue so the customer does not have to repeat it.

(5) We are also giving you more power to settle problems on the spot. Beginning April 7, agents may issue service credits of up to $40 without a supervisor's approval, up from the current limit of $15. Team leads may approve credits of up to $150. We trust your judgment. Please use credits when our mistake has cost a customer time or money, not simply to end a difficult call.

(6) Finally, we will change how we measure performance. For years, the number we watched most closely was average call length, and agents were encouraged to keep calls under six minutes. That target pushed some agents to rush customers off the phone, which often led to repeat calls. Starting in April, call length will no longer appear on individual scorecards. Instead, we will track "first-contact resolution," the percentage of problems solved without the customer needing to contact us again.

(7) We know these changes are significant. All agents will complete a two-hour training session during a scheduled shift between March 17 and March 28; your team lead will post the schedule by Friday. If you have questions or suggestions, please send them to the Customer Care Standards inbox. Several ideas in this plan, including the warm-transfer rule, came from agents themselves, and we want to keep hearing from you.

MEMO

To: All Customer Care Agents and Team Leads From: Danielle Ruiz, Director of Customer Care, Brightline Home Internet Date: March 3 Subject: New "Solve It Once" standards begin April 7

(1) Over the past year, our customer satisfaction score has slipped from 81 percent to 74 percent. When we looked closely at the comments behind those numbers, one complaint stood out above all others: customers are tired of explaining the same problem again and again. In our review of 2,000 recorded calls, the average customer with an unresolved issue contacted us 3.4 times before the problem was fixed, and nearly half of those customers were transferred at least once. Starting April 7, every agent will follow a new set of standards we are calling "Solve It Once."

(2) The idea behind Solve It Once is simple. The first agent who speaks with a customer owns that customer's problem until it is resolved or properly handed off. Owning a problem does not mean you must fix everything yourself. It means the customer should never have to start over.

(3) Under the new standards, each call should follow four steps. First, greet the customer and confirm the account. Second, listen to the full description of the problem before offering a solution, and repeat the problem back in your own words so the customer knows you understood. Third, either resolve the issue or, if you cannot, create a case note that summarizes the problem and what has already been tried. Finally, before ending the call, tell the customer exactly what will happen next and when.

(4) Transfers will still be necessary at times, especially for billing disputes and for repairs that require a field technician. However, the way we transfer will change. Agents may no longer use "cold transfers," in which a caller is placed in a new queue with no explanation. Instead, you will use a "warm transfer": stay on the line, introduce the customer to the next agent, and summarize the issue so the customer does not have to repeat it.

(5) We are also giving you more power to settle problems on the spot. Beginning April 7, agents may issue service credits of up to $40 without a supervisor's approval, up from the current limit of $15. Team leads may approve credits of up to $150. We trust your judgment. Please use credits when our mistake has cost a customer time or money, not simply to end a difficult call.

(6) Finally, we will change how we measure performance. For years, the number we watched most closely was average call length, and agents were encouraged to keep calls under six minutes. That target pushed some agents to rush customers off the phone, which often led to repeat calls. Starting in April, call length will no longer appear on individual scorecards. Instead, we will track "first-contact resolution," the percentage of problems solved without the customer needing to contact us again.

(7) We know these changes are significant. All agents will complete a two-hour training session during a scheduled shift between March 17 and March 28; your team lead will post the schedule by Friday. If you have questions or suggestions, please send them to the Customer Care Standards inbox. Several ideas in this plan, including the warm-transfer rule, came from agents themselves, and we want to keep hearing from you.

MEMO

To: All Customer Care Agents and Team Leads From: Danielle Ruiz, Director of Customer Care, Brightline Home Internet Date: March 3 Subject: New "Solve It Once" standards begin April 7

(1) Over the past year, our customer satisfaction score has slipped from 81 percent to 74 percent. When we looked closely at the comments behind those numbers, one complaint stood out above all others: customers are tired of explaining the same problem again and again. In our review of 2,000 recorded calls, the average customer with an unresolved issue contacted us 3.4 times before the problem was fixed, and nearly half of those customers were transferred at least once. Starting April 7, every agent will follow a new set of standards we are calling "Solve It Once."

(2) The idea behind Solve It Once is simple. The first agent who speaks with a customer owns that customer's problem until it is resolved or properly handed off. Owning a problem does not mean you must fix everything yourself. It means the customer should never have to start over.

(3) Under the new standards, each call should follow four steps. First, greet the customer and confirm the account. Second, listen to the full description of the problem before offering a solution, and repeat the problem back in your own words so the customer knows you understood. Third, either resolve the issue or, if you cannot, create a case note that summarizes the problem and what has already been tried. Finally, before ending the call, tell the customer exactly what will happen next and when.

(4) Transfers will still be necessary at times, especially for billing disputes and for repairs that require a field technician. However, the way we transfer will change. Agents may no longer use "cold transfers," in which a caller is placed in a new queue with no explanation. Instead, you will use a "warm transfer": stay on the line, introduce the customer to the next agent, and summarize the issue so the customer does not have to repeat it.

(5) We are also giving you more power to settle problems on the spot. Beginning April 7, agents may issue service credits of up to $40 without a supervisor's approval, up from the current limit of $15. Team leads may approve credits of up to $150. We trust your judgment. Please use credits when our mistake has cost a customer time or money, not simply to end a difficult call.

(6) Finally, we will change how we measure performance. For years, the number we watched most closely was average call length, and agents were encouraged to keep calls under six minutes. That target pushed some agents to rush customers off the phone, which often led to repeat calls. Starting in April, call length will no longer appear on individual scorecards. Instead, we will track "first-contact resolution," the percentage of problems solved without the customer needing to contact us again.

(7) We know these changes are significant. All agents will complete a two-hour training session during a scheduled shift between March 17 and March 28; your team lead will post the schedule by Friday. If you have questions or suggestions, please send them to the Customer Care Standards inbox. Several ideas in this plan, including the warm-transfer rule, came from agents themselves, and we want to keep hearing from you.

(1) The first thing anyone told us about Cortland Avenue was to watch out for Mrs. Pruitt. "She sees everything," said the man who helped us carry our couch up the steps. He nodded toward the brick house across the street, where a curtain on the second floor had just twitched shut. "And what she sees, she writes down."

(2) He was right. All that June, whenever I sat on our stoop, I could feel her watching. Sometimes she sat at her window with a spiral notebook open on the sill, and I would see her pencil move when the mail carrier came, when the Delgado twins rode their bikes past, or when old Mr. Haskins shuffled out to get his newspaper. Once, when I kicked a soccer ball against our steps for an hour, she leaned out and called, "Thirty-one times you've hit that railing, young lady." Then she wrote something down.

(3) "She's just lonely," my mother said. "Be polite." But I had decided that Mrs. Pruitt was a spy, and I didn't wave when she looked my way.

(4) Then came the second week of July. For four days the temperature climbed past ninety-five degrees, and on the fourth afternoon, at about three o'clock, every air conditioner on the block went silent at once. The refrigerator stopped humming. The traffic light at the corner went dark. My mother tried to call the power company, but the line was busy, and a recording said crews were working on outages "across the city."

(5) By four o'clock, people had drifted out onto their stoops, fanning themselves with magazines and asking each other questions no one could answer. How long would it last? Was it the whole city? Someone said it might be days.

(6) That was when Mrs. Pruitt came down her front steps. I had never seen her outside her house before. She was smaller than I expected, and she walked with a cane, but she carried her notebook under her arm like a general carrying maps.

(7) "Ms. Delgado," she said, stopping in front of the house next to ours. "Your mother takes insulin. It has to stay cold. The Kims at number 40 have a generator; I watched them test it in March." She turned a page. "Mr. Haskins lives alone and hasn't come out since Tuesday. Someone needs to knock." Then she looked straight at me. "You. You have young legs. The corner store has ice, if they haven't sold out yet." She tore out a page with a list of names and how many bags of ice each household needed, and she pressed a twenty-dollar bill into my hand.

(8) I ran. When I came back, my arms aching from the bags, the block had changed. Mr. Kim had run an orange extension cord across the sidewalk to the Delgados' refrigerator. Two teenagers I had never spoken to had knocked on Mr. Haskins's door and found him dizzy and confused in his hot kitchen; now he sat in a lawn chair in the shade, sipping water while someone's aunt, who was a nurse, checked his pulse. Mrs. Pruitt sat on her bottom step with her notebook, crossing off names.

(9) The power came back at 11:40 that night. A cheer rose up and down the street, and the air conditioners rattled to life one window at a time. People said good night slowly, as if they didn't really want to go inside.

(10) The next morning I crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Pruitt's door. It took her a long time to answer. I held out her change: six dollars and thirty cents. She looked at the coins for a moment and then at me.

(11) "Keep it," she said. "Buy yourself a notebook."

(12) "Why do you write everything down?" I asked. It was the question I had wanted to ask all summer.

(13) She was quiet for so long that I thought she wasn't going to answer. "When my husband was sick," she said finally, "nobody on this street knew. Not for months. People walked past this house every day." She tapped the cover of her notebook. "I decided that wasn't going to happen to anybody else on my block."

(14) That afternoon I bought a green notebook with a stiff cover. I sat on our stoop and wrote down the date and the temperature and the fact that Mr. Haskins had come out for his newspaper at 8:15, the way he always did. When I looked up, the curtain across the street moved. This time I waved, and after a moment, a hand waved back.

(1) The first thing anyone told us about Cortland Avenue was to watch out for Mrs. Pruitt. "She sees everything," said the man who helped us carry our couch up the steps. He nodded toward the brick house across the street, where a curtain on the second floor had just twitched shut. "And what she sees, she writes down."

(2) He was right. All that June, whenever I sat on our stoop, I could feel her watching. Sometimes she sat at her window with a spiral notebook open on the sill, and I would see her pencil move when the mail carrier came, when the Delgado twins rode their bikes past, or when old Mr. Haskins shuffled out to get his newspaper. Once, when I kicked a soccer ball against our steps for an hour, she leaned out and called, "Thirty-one times you've hit that railing, young lady." Then she wrote something down.

(3) "She's just lonely," my mother said. "Be polite." But I had decided that Mrs. Pruitt was a spy, and I didn't wave when she looked my way.

(4) Then came the second week of July. For four days the temperature climbed past ninety-five degrees, and on the fourth afternoon, at about three o'clock, every air conditioner on the block went silent at once. The refrigerator stopped humming. The traffic light at the corner went dark. My mother tried to call the power company, but the line was busy, and a recording said crews were working on outages "across the city."

(5) By four o'clock, people had drifted out onto their stoops, fanning themselves with magazines and asking each other questions no one could answer. How long would it last? Was it the whole city? Someone said it might be days.

(6) That was when Mrs. Pruitt came down her front steps. I had never seen her outside her house before. She was smaller than I expected, and she walked with a cane, but she carried her notebook under her arm like a general carrying maps.

(7) "Ms. Delgado," she said, stopping in front of the house next to ours. "Your mother takes insulin. It has to stay cold. The Kims at number 40 have a generator; I watched them test it in March." She turned a page. "Mr. Haskins lives alone and hasn't come out since Tuesday. Someone needs to knock." Then she looked straight at me. "You. You have young legs. The corner store has ice, if they haven't sold out yet." She tore out a page with a list of names and how many bags of ice each household needed, and she pressed a twenty-dollar bill into my hand.

(8) I ran. When I came back, my arms aching from the bags, the block had changed. Mr. Kim had run an orange extension cord across the sidewalk to the Delgados' refrigerator. Two teenagers I had never spoken to had knocked on Mr. Haskins's door and found him dizzy and confused in his hot kitchen; now he sat in a lawn chair in the shade, sipping water while someone's aunt, who was a nurse, checked his pulse. Mrs. Pruitt sat on her bottom step with her notebook, crossing off names.

(9) The power came back at 11:40 that night. A cheer rose up and down the street, and the air conditioners rattled to life one window at a time. People said good night slowly, as if they didn't really want to go inside.

(10) The next morning I crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Pruitt's door. It took her a long time to answer. I held out her change: six dollars and thirty cents. She looked at the coins for a moment and then at me.

(11) "Keep it," she said. "Buy yourself a notebook."

(12) "Why do you write everything down?" I asked. It was the question I had wanted to ask all summer.

(13) She was quiet for so long that I thought she wasn't going to answer. "When my husband was sick," she said finally, "nobody on this street knew. Not for months. People walked past this house every day." She tapped the cover of her notebook. "I decided that wasn't going to happen to anybody else on my block."

(14) That afternoon I bought a green notebook with a stiff cover. I sat on our stoop and wrote down the date and the temperature and the fact that Mr. Haskins had come out for his newspaper at 8:15, the way he always did. When I looked up, the curtain across the street moved. This time I waved, and after a moment, a hand waved back.

(1) The first thing anyone told us about Cortland Avenue was to watch out for Mrs. Pruitt. "She sees everything," said the man who helped us carry our couch up the steps. He nodded toward the brick house across the street, where a curtain on the second floor had just twitched shut. "And what she sees, she writes down."

(2) He was right. All that June, whenever I sat on our stoop, I could feel her watching. Sometimes she sat at her window with a spiral notebook open on the sill, and I would see her pencil move when the mail carrier came, when the Delgado twins rode their bikes past, or when old Mr. Haskins shuffled out to get his newspaper. Once, when I kicked a soccer ball against our steps for an hour, she leaned out and called, "Thirty-one times you've hit that railing, young lady." Then she wrote something down.

(3) "She's just lonely," my mother said. "Be polite." But I had decided that Mrs. Pruitt was a spy, and I didn't wave when she looked my way.

(4) Then came the second week of July. For four days the temperature climbed past ninety-five degrees, and on the fourth afternoon, at about three o'clock, every air conditioner on the block went silent at once. The refrigerator stopped humming. The traffic light at the corner went dark. My mother tried to call the power company, but the line was busy, and a recording said crews were working on outages "across the city."

(5) By four o'clock, people had drifted out onto their stoops, fanning themselves with magazines and asking each other questions no one could answer. How long would it last? Was it the whole city? Someone said it might be days.

(6) That was when Mrs. Pruitt came down her front steps. I had never seen her outside her house before. She was smaller than I expected, and she walked with a cane, but she carried her notebook under her arm like a general carrying maps.

(7) "Ms. Delgado," she said, stopping in front of the house next to ours. "Your mother takes insulin. It has to stay cold. The Kims at number 40 have a generator; I watched them test it in March." She turned a page. "Mr. Haskins lives alone and hasn't come out since Tuesday. Someone needs to knock." Then she looked straight at me. "You. You have young legs. The corner store has ice, if they haven't sold out yet." She tore out a page with a list of names and how many bags of ice each household needed, and she pressed a twenty-dollar bill into my hand.

(8) I ran. When I came back, my arms aching from the bags, the block had changed. Mr. Kim had run an orange extension cord across the sidewalk to the Delgados' refrigerator. Two teenagers I had never spoken to had knocked on Mr. Haskins's door and found him dizzy and confused in his hot kitchen; now he sat in a lawn chair in the shade, sipping water while someone's aunt, who was a nurse, checked his pulse. Mrs. Pruitt sat on her bottom step with her notebook, crossing off names.

(9) The power came back at 11:40 that night. A cheer rose up and down the street, and the air conditioners rattled to life one window at a time. People said good night slowly, as if they didn't really want to go inside.

(10) The next morning I crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Pruitt's door. It took her a long time to answer. I held out her change: six dollars and thirty cents. She looked at the coins for a moment and then at me.

(11) "Keep it," she said. "Buy yourself a notebook."

(12) "Why do you write everything down?" I asked. It was the question I had wanted to ask all summer.

(13) She was quiet for so long that I thought she wasn't going to answer. "When my husband was sick," she said finally, "nobody on this street knew. Not for months. People walked past this house every day." She tapped the cover of her notebook. "I decided that wasn't going to happen to anybody else on my block."

(14) That afternoon I bought a green notebook with a stiff cover. I sat on our stoop and wrote down the date and the temperature and the fact that Mr. Haskins had come out for his newspaper at 8:15, the way he always did. When I looked up, the curtain across the street moved. This time I waved, and after a moment, a hand waved back.

(1) The first thing anyone told us about Cortland Avenue was to watch out for Mrs. Pruitt. "She sees everything," said the man who helped us carry our couch up the steps. He nodded toward the brick house across the street, where a curtain on the second floor had just twitched shut. "And what she sees, she writes down."

(2) He was right. All that June, whenever I sat on our stoop, I could feel her watching. Sometimes she sat at her window with a spiral notebook open on the sill, and I would see her pencil move when the mail carrier came, when the Delgado twins rode their bikes past, or when old Mr. Haskins shuffled out to get his newspaper. Once, when I kicked a soccer ball against our steps for an hour, she leaned out and called, "Thirty-one times you've hit that railing, young lady." Then she wrote something down.

(3) "She's just lonely," my mother said. "Be polite." But I had decided that Mrs. Pruitt was a spy, and I didn't wave when she looked my way.

(4) Then came the second week of July. For four days the temperature climbed past ninety-five degrees, and on the fourth afternoon, at about three o'clock, every air conditioner on the block went silent at once. The refrigerator stopped humming. The traffic light at the corner went dark. My mother tried to call the power company, but the line was busy, and a recording said crews were working on outages "across the city."

(5) By four o'clock, people had drifted out onto their stoops, fanning themselves with magazines and asking each other questions no one could answer. How long would it last? Was it the whole city? Someone said it might be days.

(6) That was when Mrs. Pruitt came down her front steps. I had never seen her outside her house before. She was smaller than I expected, and she walked with a cane, but she carried her notebook under her arm like a general carrying maps.

(7) "Ms. Delgado," she said, stopping in front of the house next to ours. "Your mother takes insulin. It has to stay cold. The Kims at number 40 have a generator; I watched them test it in March." She turned a page. "Mr. Haskins lives alone and hasn't come out since Tuesday. Someone needs to knock." Then she looked straight at me. "You. You have young legs. The corner store has ice, if they haven't sold out yet." She tore out a page with a list of names and how many bags of ice each household needed, and she pressed a twenty-dollar bill into my hand.

(8) I ran. When I came back, my arms aching from the bags, the block had changed. Mr. Kim had run an orange extension cord across the sidewalk to the Delgados' refrigerator. Two teenagers I had never spoken to had knocked on Mr. Haskins's door and found him dizzy and confused in his hot kitchen; now he sat in a lawn chair in the shade, sipping water while someone's aunt, who was a nurse, checked his pulse. Mrs. Pruitt sat on her bottom step with her notebook, crossing off names.

(9) The power came back at 11:40 that night. A cheer rose up and down the street, and the air conditioners rattled to life one window at a time. People said good night slowly, as if they didn't really want to go inside.

(10) The next morning I crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Pruitt's door. It took her a long time to answer. I held out her change: six dollars and thirty cents. She looked at the coins for a moment and then at me.

(11) "Keep it," she said. "Buy yourself a notebook."

(12) "Why do you write everything down?" I asked. It was the question I had wanted to ask all summer.

(13) She was quiet for so long that I thought she wasn't going to answer. "When my husband was sick," she said finally, "nobody on this street knew. Not for months. People walked past this house every day." She tapped the cover of her notebook. "I decided that wasn't going to happen to anybody else on my block."

(14) That afternoon I bought a green notebook with a stiff cover. I sat on our stoop and wrote down the date and the temperature and the fact that Mr. Haskins had come out for his newspaper at 8:15, the way he always did. When I looked up, the curtain across the street moved. This time I waved, and after a moment, a hand waved back.

(1) Inside a former warehouse, rows of lettuce grow on shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling. There is no soil and no sunlight. Instead, the plants' roots hang in trays of water mixed with nutrients, and banks of pink and purple LED lights glow above them for up to 18 hours a day. This is a vertical farm, and its supporters say farms like it could change how cities get their food.

(2) The appeal is easy to understand. A head of lettuce sold in a northern supermarket in winter may have traveled well over a thousand miles from fields in California or Arizona. Vertical farms can be built inside or next to the cities they feed, so their greens can reach store shelves within a day or two of harvest. Because the growing rooms are sealed off from the weather, crops can be harvested year-round, regardless of drought, frost or flood. And because the water in a vertical farm is captured and reused rather than soaking into the ground, many growers report using a small fraction of the water that field farming requires, often 90 percent less or more.

(3) Indoor growing also keeps out many pests, so vertical farms typically use few or no chemical pesticides. And because the plants are stacked in layers, a single building can produce far more lettuce per square foot of land than an outdoor field.

(4) Yet the same features that make vertical farms attractive also make them expensive. In a field, sunlight is free. In a vertical farm, every bit of light comes from electricity, and so do the fans, pumps and air conditioners that keep the growing rooms at the right temperature and humidity. Energy is often one of a vertical farm's largest costs. Where that electricity comes from also matters: a farm powered mainly by coal or natural gas may produce more climate-warming pollution per pound of lettuce than a field farm, even after counting the trucks that carry field-grown lettuce across the country.

(5) Those costs help explain why the industry has struggled. During the late 2010s and early 2020s, investors poured large sums of money into vertical farming companies. Since then, several well-known companies have closed farms or filed for bankruptcy, often because their electricity and building costs were higher than the prices their produce could bring.

(6) Crop choice is another limit. Leafy greens and herbs grow quickly, stay small and sell for a relatively high price per pound, which makes them a good fit for indoor shelves. Staple crops such as wheat, rice and corn are another story. They need far more light and space, and they sell for so little per pound that growing them indoors makes little economic sense today. For the foreseeable future, vertical farms will not replace the fields that grow most of the world's calories.

(7) None of this means vertical farming is a failed idea. Researchers are testing more efficient lights, and some farms are being built next to solar or wind power sources or in places where electricity is cheap. Others are finding niches, such as supplying fresh herbs to restaurants or growing greens in remote northern communities where fresh produce is otherwise flown in at high cost. The most realistic future for vertical farms may be as one part of the food system, not a replacement for traditional agriculture: a way to grow certain crops close to the people who eat them, in places where the benefits outweigh the costs.

(1) Inside a former warehouse, rows of lettuce grow on shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling. There is no soil and no sunlight. Instead, the plants' roots hang in trays of water mixed with nutrients, and banks of pink and purple LED lights glow above them for up to 18 hours a day. This is a vertical farm, and its supporters say farms like it could change how cities get their food.

(2) The appeal is easy to understand. A head of lettuce sold in a northern supermarket in winter may have traveled well over a thousand miles from fields in California or Arizona. Vertical farms can be built inside or next to the cities they feed, so their greens can reach store shelves within a day or two of harvest. Because the growing rooms are sealed off from the weather, crops can be harvested year-round, regardless of drought, frost or flood. And because the water in a vertical farm is captured and reused rather than soaking into the ground, many growers report using a small fraction of the water that field farming requires, often 90 percent less or more.

(3) Indoor growing also keeps out many pests, so vertical farms typically use few or no chemical pesticides. And because the plants are stacked in layers, a single building can produce far more lettuce per square foot of land than an outdoor field.

(4) Yet the same features that make vertical farms attractive also make them expensive. In a field, sunlight is free. In a vertical farm, every bit of light comes from electricity, and so do the fans, pumps and air conditioners that keep the growing rooms at the right temperature and humidity. Energy is often one of a vertical farm's largest costs. Where that electricity comes from also matters: a farm powered mainly by coal or natural gas may produce more climate-warming pollution per pound of lettuce than a field farm, even after counting the trucks that carry field-grown lettuce across the country.

(5) Those costs help explain why the industry has struggled. During the late 2010s and early 2020s, investors poured large sums of money into vertical farming companies. Since then, several well-known companies have closed farms or filed for bankruptcy, often because their electricity and building costs were higher than the prices their produce could bring.

(6) Crop choice is another limit. Leafy greens and herbs grow quickly, stay small and sell for a relatively high price per pound, which makes them a good fit for indoor shelves. Staple crops such as wheat, rice and corn are another story. They need far more light and space, and they sell for so little per pound that growing them indoors makes little economic sense today. For the foreseeable future, vertical farms will not replace the fields that grow most of the world's calories.

(7) None of this means vertical farming is a failed idea. Researchers are testing more efficient lights, and some farms are being built next to solar or wind power sources or in places where electricity is cheap. Others are finding niches, such as supplying fresh herbs to restaurants or growing greens in remote northern communities where fresh produce is otherwise flown in at high cost. The most realistic future for vertical farms may be as one part of the food system, not a replacement for traditional agriculture: a way to grow certain crops close to the people who eat them, in places where the benefits outweigh the costs.

(1) Inside a former warehouse, rows of lettuce grow on shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling. There is no soil and no sunlight. Instead, the plants' roots hang in trays of water mixed with nutrients, and banks of pink and purple LED lights glow above them for up to 18 hours a day. This is a vertical farm, and its supporters say farms like it could change how cities get their food.

(2) The appeal is easy to understand. A head of lettuce sold in a northern supermarket in winter may have traveled well over a thousand miles from fields in California or Arizona. Vertical farms can be built inside or next to the cities they feed, so their greens can reach store shelves within a day or two of harvest. Because the growing rooms are sealed off from the weather, crops can be harvested year-round, regardless of drought, frost or flood. And because the water in a vertical farm is captured and reused rather than soaking into the ground, many growers report using a small fraction of the water that field farming requires, often 90 percent less or more.

(3) Indoor growing also keeps out many pests, so vertical farms typically use few or no chemical pesticides. And because the plants are stacked in layers, a single building can produce far more lettuce per square foot of land than an outdoor field.

(4) Yet the same features that make vertical farms attractive also make them expensive. In a field, sunlight is free. In a vertical farm, every bit of light comes from electricity, and so do the fans, pumps and air conditioners that keep the growing rooms at the right temperature and humidity. Energy is often one of a vertical farm's largest costs. Where that electricity comes from also matters: a farm powered mainly by coal or natural gas may produce more climate-warming pollution per pound of lettuce than a field farm, even after counting the trucks that carry field-grown lettuce across the country.

(5) Those costs help explain why the industry has struggled. During the late 2010s and early 2020s, investors poured large sums of money into vertical farming companies. Since then, several well-known companies have closed farms or filed for bankruptcy, often because their electricity and building costs were higher than the prices their produce could bring.

(6) Crop choice is another limit. Leafy greens and herbs grow quickly, stay small and sell for a relatively high price per pound, which makes them a good fit for indoor shelves. Staple crops such as wheat, rice and corn are another story. They need far more light and space, and they sell for so little per pound that growing them indoors makes little economic sense today. For the foreseeable future, vertical farms will not replace the fields that grow most of the world's calories.

(7) None of this means vertical farming is a failed idea. Researchers are testing more efficient lights, and some farms are being built next to solar or wind power sources or in places where electricity is cheap. Others are finding niches, such as supplying fresh herbs to restaurants or growing greens in remote northern communities where fresh produce is otherwise flown in at high cost. The most realistic future for vertical farms may be as one part of the food system, not a replacement for traditional agriculture: a way to grow certain crops close to the people who eat them, in places where the benefits outweigh the costs.

(1) Inside a former warehouse, rows of lettuce grow on shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling. There is no soil and no sunlight. Instead, the plants' roots hang in trays of water mixed with nutrients, and banks of pink and purple LED lights glow above them for up to 18 hours a day. This is a vertical farm, and its supporters say farms like it could change how cities get their food.

(2) The appeal is easy to understand. A head of lettuce sold in a northern supermarket in winter may have traveled well over a thousand miles from fields in California or Arizona. Vertical farms can be built inside or next to the cities they feed, so their greens can reach store shelves within a day or two of harvest. Because the growing rooms are sealed off from the weather, crops can be harvested year-round, regardless of drought, frost or flood. And because the water in a vertical farm is captured and reused rather than soaking into the ground, many growers report using a small fraction of the water that field farming requires, often 90 percent less or more.

(3) Indoor growing also keeps out many pests, so vertical farms typically use few or no chemical pesticides. And because the plants are stacked in layers, a single building can produce far more lettuce per square foot of land than an outdoor field.

(4) Yet the same features that make vertical farms attractive also make them expensive. In a field, sunlight is free. In a vertical farm, every bit of light comes from electricity, and so do the fans, pumps and air conditioners that keep the growing rooms at the right temperature and humidity. Energy is often one of a vertical farm's largest costs. Where that electricity comes from also matters: a farm powered mainly by coal or natural gas may produce more climate-warming pollution per pound of lettuce than a field farm, even after counting the trucks that carry field-grown lettuce across the country.

(5) Those costs help explain why the industry has struggled. During the late 2010s and early 2020s, investors poured large sums of money into vertical farming companies. Since then, several well-known companies have closed farms or filed for bankruptcy, often because their electricity and building costs were higher than the prices their produce could bring.

(6) Crop choice is another limit. Leafy greens and herbs grow quickly, stay small and sell for a relatively high price per pound, which makes them a good fit for indoor shelves. Staple crops such as wheat, rice and corn are another story. They need far more light and space, and they sell for so little per pound that growing them indoors makes little economic sense today. For the foreseeable future, vertical farms will not replace the fields that grow most of the world's calories.

(7) None of this means vertical farming is a failed idea. Researchers are testing more efficient lights, and some farms are being built next to solar or wind power sources or in places where electricity is cheap. Others are finding niches, such as supplying fresh herbs to restaurants or growing greens in remote northern communities where fresh produce is otherwise flown in at high cost. The most realistic future for vertical farms may be as one part of the food system, not a replacement for traditional agriculture: a way to grow certain crops close to the people who eat them, in places where the benefits outweigh the costs.

(1) Inside a former warehouse, rows of lettuce grow on shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling. There is no soil and no sunlight. Instead, the plants' roots hang in trays of water mixed with nutrients, and banks of pink and purple LED lights glow above them for up to 18 hours a day. This is a vertical farm, and its supporters say farms like it could change how cities get their food.

(2) The appeal is easy to understand. A head of lettuce sold in a northern supermarket in winter may have traveled well over a thousand miles from fields in California or Arizona. Vertical farms can be built inside or next to the cities they feed, so their greens can reach store shelves within a day or two of harvest. Because the growing rooms are sealed off from the weather, crops can be harvested year-round, regardless of drought, frost or flood. And because the water in a vertical farm is captured and reused rather than soaking into the ground, many growers report using a small fraction of the water that field farming requires, often 90 percent less or more.

(3) Indoor growing also keeps out many pests, so vertical farms typically use few or no chemical pesticides. And because the plants are stacked in layers, a single building can produce far more lettuce per square foot of land than an outdoor field.

(4) Yet the same features that make vertical farms attractive also make them expensive. In a field, sunlight is free. In a vertical farm, every bit of light comes from electricity, and so do the fans, pumps and air conditioners that keep the growing rooms at the right temperature and humidity. Energy is often one of a vertical farm's largest costs. Where that electricity comes from also matters: a farm powered mainly by coal or natural gas may produce more climate-warming pollution per pound of lettuce than a field farm, even after counting the trucks that carry field-grown lettuce across the country.

(5) Those costs help explain why the industry has struggled. During the late 2010s and early 2020s, investors poured large sums of money into vertical farming companies. Since then, several well-known companies have closed farms or filed for bankruptcy, often because their electricity and building costs were higher than the prices their produce could bring.

(6) Crop choice is another limit. Leafy greens and herbs grow quickly, stay small and sell for a relatively high price per pound, which makes them a good fit for indoor shelves. Staple crops such as wheat, rice and corn are another story. They need far more light and space, and they sell for so little per pound that growing them indoors makes little economic sense today. For the foreseeable future, vertical farms will not replace the fields that grow most of the world's calories.

(7) None of this means vertical farming is a failed idea. Researchers are testing more efficient lights, and some farms are being built next to solar or wind power sources or in places where electricity is cheap. Others are finding niches, such as supplying fresh herbs to restaurants or growing greens in remote northern communities where fresh produce is otherwise flown in at high cost. The most realistic future for vertical farms may be as one part of the food system, not a replacement for traditional agriculture: a way to grow certain crops close to the people who eat them, in places where the benefits outweigh the costs.

The two texts below were written for this test.

Text 1: A Small Tax for a Healthier Lakeport

An opinion article by the director of the Lakeport County Health Department

(1) Sugary drinks are the single largest source of added sugar in the American diet, and diets high in added sugar are linked to obesity, type 2 diabetes and tooth decay. In Lakeport County, one in three adults now has diabetes or prediabetes. I am asking the city council to adopt a tax of 1.5 cents per ounce on sugary drinks such as soda, sweetened iced tea and sports drinks. Water, milk and 100 percent fruit juice would not be taxed.

(2) We have strong evidence that this kind of tax works. Three years ago, the nearby city of Ridgeview adopted the same 1.5-cent tax. A study by the state university found that sales of taxed drinks within Ridgeview fell by 27 percent in the first two years, while sales of bottled water rose by 9 percent. When the price of a two-liter bottle of soda goes up by about a dollar, many families simply buy less of it.

(3) Opponents point out that some Ridgeview shoppers began buying soda in neighboring towns. That is true, and the same study measured it. Even after counting those purchases, total sales of taxed drinks by Ridgeview residents fell by about 18 percent. Some people drove across the city line, but most did not.

(4) The tax would also raise money for health. Ridgeview's tax brings in about $9 million a year, which the city uses to pay for free pre-kindergarten classes and to install water-bottle filling stations in every public school. I propose that Lakeport dedicate its revenue to similar programs, with the largest share going to the neighborhoods with the highest rates of diabetes.

Text 2: The Wrong Way to Fight Diabetes

An opinion article by the owner of a Lakeport corner grocery store

(5) I am not arguing that soda is good for anyone. I sell fresh fruit and vegetables in my store, and I want my customers to be healthy. But a soda tax is the wrong tool, and it will hurt the very families it is supposed to help.

(6) A sales tax on soda takes a bigger bite out of a small paycheck than a large one. A family earning $30,000 a year pays the same extra dollar per bottle as a family earning $300,000. Those lower-income families are also the ones most likely to shop at small neighborhood stores like mine.

(7) The Ridgeview Grocers Association reported that in the first year of Ridgeview's tax, sales of taxed drinks rose 15 percent at stores just outside the city limits. That money did not disappear; it simply crossed the city line, along with the shoppers who bought milk, bread and gas on the same trip. Two small grocers near the Ridgeview border closed within eighteen months.

(8) If the city wants to fight diabetes, it should spend money directly on programs that work, such as nutrition classes, free health screenings and coupons that make fresh produce cheaper. Taxing soda is just the first step. Next, the government will be telling us what we can eat for dinner.

The two texts below were written for this test.

Text 1: A Small Tax for a Healthier Lakeport

An opinion article by the director of the Lakeport County Health Department

(1) Sugary drinks are the single largest source of added sugar in the American diet, and diets high in added sugar are linked to obesity, type 2 diabetes and tooth decay. In Lakeport County, one in three adults now has diabetes or prediabetes. I am asking the city council to adopt a tax of 1.5 cents per ounce on sugary drinks such as soda, sweetened iced tea and sports drinks. Water, milk and 100 percent fruit juice would not be taxed.

(2) We have strong evidence that this kind of tax works. Three years ago, the nearby city of Ridgeview adopted the same 1.5-cent tax. A study by the state university found that sales of taxed drinks within Ridgeview fell by 27 percent in the first two years, while sales of bottled water rose by 9 percent. When the price of a two-liter bottle of soda goes up by about a dollar, many families simply buy less of it.

(3) Opponents point out that some Ridgeview shoppers began buying soda in neighboring towns. That is true, and the same study measured it. Even after counting those purchases, total sales of taxed drinks by Ridgeview residents fell by about 18 percent. Some people drove across the city line, but most did not.

(4) The tax would also raise money for health. Ridgeview's tax brings in about $9 million a year, which the city uses to pay for free pre-kindergarten classes and to install water-bottle filling stations in every public school. I propose that Lakeport dedicate its revenue to similar programs, with the largest share going to the neighborhoods with the highest rates of diabetes.

Text 2: The Wrong Way to Fight Diabetes

An opinion article by the owner of a Lakeport corner grocery store

(5) I am not arguing that soda is good for anyone. I sell fresh fruit and vegetables in my store, and I want my customers to be healthy. But a soda tax is the wrong tool, and it will hurt the very families it is supposed to help.

(6) A sales tax on soda takes a bigger bite out of a small paycheck than a large one. A family earning $30,000 a year pays the same extra dollar per bottle as a family earning $300,000. Those lower-income families are also the ones most likely to shop at small neighborhood stores like mine.

(7) The Ridgeview Grocers Association reported that in the first year of Ridgeview's tax, sales of taxed drinks rose 15 percent at stores just outside the city limits. That money did not disappear; it simply crossed the city line, along with the shoppers who bought milk, bread and gas on the same trip. Two small grocers near the Ridgeview border closed within eighteen months.

(8) If the city wants to fight diabetes, it should spend money directly on programs that work, such as nutrition classes, free health screenings and coupons that make fresh produce cheaper. Taxing soda is just the first step. Next, the government will be telling us what we can eat for dinner.

The two texts below were written for this test.

Text 1: A Small Tax for a Healthier Lakeport

An opinion article by the director of the Lakeport County Health Department

(1) Sugary drinks are the single largest source of added sugar in the American diet, and diets high in added sugar are linked to obesity, type 2 diabetes and tooth decay. In Lakeport County, one in three adults now has diabetes or prediabetes. I am asking the city council to adopt a tax of 1.5 cents per ounce on sugary drinks such as soda, sweetened iced tea and sports drinks. Water, milk and 100 percent fruit juice would not be taxed.

(2) We have strong evidence that this kind of tax works. Three years ago, the nearby city of Ridgeview adopted the same 1.5-cent tax. A study by the state university found that sales of taxed drinks within Ridgeview fell by 27 percent in the first two years, while sales of bottled water rose by 9 percent. When the price of a two-liter bottle of soda goes up by about a dollar, many families simply buy less of it.

(3) Opponents point out that some Ridgeview shoppers began buying soda in neighboring towns. That is true, and the same study measured it. Even after counting those purchases, total sales of taxed drinks by Ridgeview residents fell by about 18 percent. Some people drove across the city line, but most did not.

(4) The tax would also raise money for health. Ridgeview's tax brings in about $9 million a year, which the city uses to pay for free pre-kindergarten classes and to install water-bottle filling stations in every public school. I propose that Lakeport dedicate its revenue to similar programs, with the largest share going to the neighborhoods with the highest rates of diabetes.

Text 2: The Wrong Way to Fight Diabetes

An opinion article by the owner of a Lakeport corner grocery store

(5) I am not arguing that soda is good for anyone. I sell fresh fruit and vegetables in my store, and I want my customers to be healthy. But a soda tax is the wrong tool, and it will hurt the very families it is supposed to help.

(6) A sales tax on soda takes a bigger bite out of a small paycheck than a large one. A family earning $30,000 a year pays the same extra dollar per bottle as a family earning $300,000. Those lower-income families are also the ones most likely to shop at small neighborhood stores like mine.

(7) The Ridgeview Grocers Association reported that in the first year of Ridgeview's tax, sales of taxed drinks rose 15 percent at stores just outside the city limits. That money did not disappear; it simply crossed the city line, along with the shoppers who bought milk, bread and gas on the same trip. Two small grocers near the Ridgeview border closed within eighteen months.

(8) If the city wants to fight diabetes, it should spend money directly on programs that work, such as nutrition classes, free health screenings and coupons that make fresh produce cheaper. Taxing soda is just the first step. Next, the government will be telling us what we can eat for dinner.

The two texts below were written for this test.

Text 1: A Small Tax for a Healthier Lakeport

An opinion article by the director of the Lakeport County Health Department

(1) Sugary drinks are the single largest source of added sugar in the American diet, and diets high in added sugar are linked to obesity, type 2 diabetes and tooth decay. In Lakeport County, one in three adults now has diabetes or prediabetes. I am asking the city council to adopt a tax of 1.5 cents per ounce on sugary drinks such as soda, sweetened iced tea and sports drinks. Water, milk and 100 percent fruit juice would not be taxed.

(2) We have strong evidence that this kind of tax works. Three years ago, the nearby city of Ridgeview adopted the same 1.5-cent tax. A study by the state university found that sales of taxed drinks within Ridgeview fell by 27 percent in the first two years, while sales of bottled water rose by 9 percent. When the price of a two-liter bottle of soda goes up by about a dollar, many families simply buy less of it.

(3) Opponents point out that some Ridgeview shoppers began buying soda in neighboring towns. That is true, and the same study measured it. Even after counting those purchases, total sales of taxed drinks by Ridgeview residents fell by about 18 percent. Some people drove across the city line, but most did not.

(4) The tax would also raise money for health. Ridgeview's tax brings in about $9 million a year, which the city uses to pay for free pre-kindergarten classes and to install water-bottle filling stations in every public school. I propose that Lakeport dedicate its revenue to similar programs, with the largest share going to the neighborhoods with the highest rates of diabetes.

Text 2: The Wrong Way to Fight Diabetes

An opinion article by the owner of a Lakeport corner grocery store

(5) I am not arguing that soda is good for anyone. I sell fresh fruit and vegetables in my store, and I want my customers to be healthy. But a soda tax is the wrong tool, and it will hurt the very families it is supposed to help.

(6) A sales tax on soda takes a bigger bite out of a small paycheck than a large one. A family earning $30,000 a year pays the same extra dollar per bottle as a family earning $300,000. Those lower-income families are also the ones most likely to shop at small neighborhood stores like mine.

(7) The Ridgeview Grocers Association reported that in the first year of Ridgeview's tax, sales of taxed drinks rose 15 percent at stores just outside the city limits. That money did not disappear; it simply crossed the city line, along with the shoppers who bought milk, bread and gas on the same trip. Two small grocers near the Ridgeview border closed within eighteen months.

(8) If the city wants to fight diabetes, it should spend money directly on programs that work, such as nutrition classes, free health screenings and coupons that make fresh produce cheaper. Taxing soda is just the first step. Next, the government will be telling us what we can eat for dinner.

The two texts below were written for this test.

Text 1: A Small Tax for a Healthier Lakeport

An opinion article by the director of the Lakeport County Health Department

(1) Sugary drinks are the single largest source of added sugar in the American diet, and diets high in added sugar are linked to obesity, type 2 diabetes and tooth decay. In Lakeport County, one in three adults now has diabetes or prediabetes. I am asking the city council to adopt a tax of 1.5 cents per ounce on sugary drinks such as soda, sweetened iced tea and sports drinks. Water, milk and 100 percent fruit juice would not be taxed.

(2) We have strong evidence that this kind of tax works. Three years ago, the nearby city of Ridgeview adopted the same 1.5-cent tax. A study by the state university found that sales of taxed drinks within Ridgeview fell by 27 percent in the first two years, while sales of bottled water rose by 9 percent. When the price of a two-liter bottle of soda goes up by about a dollar, many families simply buy less of it.

(3) Opponents point out that some Ridgeview shoppers began buying soda in neighboring towns. That is true, and the same study measured it. Even after counting those purchases, total sales of taxed drinks by Ridgeview residents fell by about 18 percent. Some people drove across the city line, but most did not.

(4) The tax would also raise money for health. Ridgeview's tax brings in about $9 million a year, which the city uses to pay for free pre-kindergarten classes and to install water-bottle filling stations in every public school. I propose that Lakeport dedicate its revenue to similar programs, with the largest share going to the neighborhoods with the highest rates of diabetes.

Text 2: The Wrong Way to Fight Diabetes

An opinion article by the owner of a Lakeport corner grocery store

(5) I am not arguing that soda is good for anyone. I sell fresh fruit and vegetables in my store, and I want my customers to be healthy. But a soda tax is the wrong tool, and it will hurt the very families it is supposed to help.

(6) A sales tax on soda takes a bigger bite out of a small paycheck than a large one. A family earning $30,000 a year pays the same extra dollar per bottle as a family earning $300,000. Those lower-income families are also the ones most likely to shop at small neighborhood stores like mine.

(7) The Ridgeview Grocers Association reported that in the first year of Ridgeview's tax, sales of taxed drinks rose 15 percent at stores just outside the city limits. That money did not disappear; it simply crossed the city line, along with the shoppers who bought milk, bread and gas on the same trip. Two small grocers near the Ridgeview border closed within eighteen months.

(8) If the city wants to fight diabetes, it should spend money directly on programs that work, such as nutrition classes, free health screenings and coupons that make fresh produce cheaper. Taxing soda is just the first step. Next, the government will be telling us what we can eat for dinner.

(1) Nobody likes to wait. Yet anyone who has stood in a checkout line knows that some waits feel far worse than others. Ten minutes in a waiting room with a good magazine can pass quickly, while three minutes on hold listening to the same song over and over can feel endless. People who study customer service have found that how long a wait feels often matters more to customers than how long it actually lasts.

(2) A widely told story from an airport in Houston, Texas, illustrates the point. According to accounts of the episode, passengers complained constantly about the long wait for their checked bags. The airport hired more baggage handlers and cut the average wait to about eight minutes, but the complaints continued. When managers looked more closely, they found that passengers walked only about one minute from their gate to the baggage claim area and then stood around for roughly seven minutes. The solution was not to speed up the bags. Instead, the airport moved arriving flights to gates farther from baggage claim, so passengers spent most of the time walking. Complaints reportedly dropped sharply, even though the total time from plane to bag had not gotten any shorter.

(3) The lesson is that unoccupied time feels longer than occupied time. This is why many restaurants hand out menus to people waiting for a table, and why some building managers place mirrors near elevators. People who are reading, checking their appearance or simply moving tend to notice the minutes less.

(4) Uncertainty also stretches time. A wait with no end in sight produces more anxiety than a wait of known length, even a long one. For this reason, many phone systems now announce an estimated hold time, and theme parks post signs at the entrance to each line showing how many minutes remain. Some parks have been known to post estimates slightly longer than the real wait, so that guests are pleasantly surprised when they reach the front sooner than expected.

(5) Fairness matters, too. People tolerate a long wait more easily if they believe everyone is being treated the same way. Few things anger customers more than watching someone who arrived later get served first. That is one reason many banks and stores have replaced several separate checkout lines with a single line that feeds into multiple registers. A single line may not shorten the average wait by much, but it guarantees that customers are served in the order they arrived, and it removes the frustration of choosing the "wrong" line.

(6) None of these techniques makes waiting pleasant. But they suggest that businesses have more options than simply hiring more workers or buying faster machines. Sometimes the most effective way to improve a customer's experience is to change not the clock, but the customer's sense of time.

(1) Nobody likes to wait. Yet anyone who has stood in a checkout line knows that some waits feel far worse than others. Ten minutes in a waiting room with a good magazine can pass quickly, while three minutes on hold listening to the same song over and over can feel endless. People who study customer service have found that how long a wait feels often matters more to customers than how long it actually lasts.

(2) A widely told story from an airport in Houston, Texas, illustrates the point. According to accounts of the episode, passengers complained constantly about the long wait for their checked bags. The airport hired more baggage handlers and cut the average wait to about eight minutes, but the complaints continued. When managers looked more closely, they found that passengers walked only about one minute from their gate to the baggage claim area and then stood around for roughly seven minutes. The solution was not to speed up the bags. Instead, the airport moved arriving flights to gates farther from baggage claim, so passengers spent most of the time walking. Complaints reportedly dropped sharply, even though the total time from plane to bag had not gotten any shorter.

(3) The lesson is that unoccupied time feels longer than occupied time. This is why many restaurants hand out menus to people waiting for a table, and why some building managers place mirrors near elevators. People who are reading, checking their appearance or simply moving tend to notice the minutes less.

(4) Uncertainty also stretches time. A wait with no end in sight produces more anxiety than a wait of known length, even a long one. For this reason, many phone systems now announce an estimated hold time, and theme parks post signs at the entrance to each line showing how many minutes remain. Some parks have been known to post estimates slightly longer than the real wait, so that guests are pleasantly surprised when they reach the front sooner than expected.

(5) Fairness matters, too. People tolerate a long wait more easily if they believe everyone is being treated the same way. Few things anger customers more than watching someone who arrived later get served first. That is one reason many banks and stores have replaced several separate checkout lines with a single line that feeds into multiple registers. A single line may not shorten the average wait by much, but it guarantees that customers are served in the order they arrived, and it removes the frustration of choosing the "wrong" line.

(6) None of these techniques makes waiting pleasant. But they suggest that businesses have more options than simply hiring more workers or buying faster machines. Sometimes the most effective way to improve a customer's experience is to change not the clock, but the customer's sense of time.

(1) Nobody likes to wait. Yet anyone who has stood in a checkout line knows that some waits feel far worse than others. Ten minutes in a waiting room with a good magazine can pass quickly, while three minutes on hold listening to the same song over and over can feel endless. People who study customer service have found that how long a wait feels often matters more to customers than how long it actually lasts.

(2) A widely told story from an airport in Houston, Texas, illustrates the point. According to accounts of the episode, passengers complained constantly about the long wait for their checked bags. The airport hired more baggage handlers and cut the average wait to about eight minutes, but the complaints continued. When managers looked more closely, they found that passengers walked only about one minute from their gate to the baggage claim area and then stood around for roughly seven minutes. The solution was not to speed up the bags. Instead, the airport moved arriving flights to gates farther from baggage claim, so passengers spent most of the time walking. Complaints reportedly dropped sharply, even though the total time from plane to bag had not gotten any shorter.

(3) The lesson is that unoccupied time feels longer than occupied time. This is why many restaurants hand out menus to people waiting for a table, and why some building managers place mirrors near elevators. People who are reading, checking their appearance or simply moving tend to notice the minutes less.

(4) Uncertainty also stretches time. A wait with no end in sight produces more anxiety than a wait of known length, even a long one. For this reason, many phone systems now announce an estimated hold time, and theme parks post signs at the entrance to each line showing how many minutes remain. Some parks have been known to post estimates slightly longer than the real wait, so that guests are pleasantly surprised when they reach the front sooner than expected.

(5) Fairness matters, too. People tolerate a long wait more easily if they believe everyone is being treated the same way. Few things anger customers more than watching someone who arrived later get served first. That is one reason many banks and stores have replaced several separate checkout lines with a single line that feeds into multiple registers. A single line may not shorten the average wait by much, but it guarantees that customers are served in the order they arrived, and it removes the frustration of choosing the "wrong" line.

(6) None of these techniques makes waiting pleasant. But they suggest that businesses have more options than simply hiring more workers or buying faster machines. Sometimes the most effective way to improve a customer's experience is to change not the clock, but the customer's sense of time.

(1) Nobody likes to wait. Yet anyone who has stood in a checkout line knows that some waits feel far worse than others. Ten minutes in a waiting room with a good magazine can pass quickly, while three minutes on hold listening to the same song over and over can feel endless. People who study customer service have found that how long a wait feels often matters more to customers than how long it actually lasts.

(2) A widely told story from an airport in Houston, Texas, illustrates the point. According to accounts of the episode, passengers complained constantly about the long wait for their checked bags. The airport hired more baggage handlers and cut the average wait to about eight minutes, but the complaints continued. When managers looked more closely, they found that passengers walked only about one minute from their gate to the baggage claim area and then stood around for roughly seven minutes. The solution was not to speed up the bags. Instead, the airport moved arriving flights to gates farther from baggage claim, so passengers spent most of the time walking. Complaints reportedly dropped sharply, even though the total time from plane to bag had not gotten any shorter.

(3) The lesson is that unoccupied time feels longer than occupied time. This is why many restaurants hand out menus to people waiting for a table, and why some building managers place mirrors near elevators. People who are reading, checking their appearance or simply moving tend to notice the minutes less.

(4) Uncertainty also stretches time. A wait with no end in sight produces more anxiety than a wait of known length, even a long one. For this reason, many phone systems now announce an estimated hold time, and theme parks post signs at the entrance to each line showing how many minutes remain. Some parks have been known to post estimates slightly longer than the real wait, so that guests are pleasantly surprised when they reach the front sooner than expected.

(5) Fairness matters, too. People tolerate a long wait more easily if they believe everyone is being treated the same way. Few things anger customers more than watching someone who arrived later get served first. That is one reason many banks and stores have replaced several separate checkout lines with a single line that feeds into multiple registers. A single line may not shorten the average wait by much, but it guarantees that customers are served in the order they arrived, and it removes the frustration of choosing the "wrong" line.

(6) None of these techniques makes waiting pleasant. But they suggest that businesses have more options than simply hiring more workers or buying faster machines. Sometimes the most effective way to improve a customer's experience is to change not the clock, but the customer's sense of time.

(1) Nobody likes to wait. Yet anyone who has stood in a checkout line knows that some waits feel far worse than others. Ten minutes in a waiting room with a good magazine can pass quickly, while three minutes on hold listening to the same song over and over can feel endless. People who study customer service have found that how long a wait feels often matters more to customers than how long it actually lasts.

(2) A widely told story from an airport in Houston, Texas, illustrates the point. According to accounts of the episode, passengers complained constantly about the long wait for their checked bags. The airport hired more baggage handlers and cut the average wait to about eight minutes, but the complaints continued. When managers looked more closely, they found that passengers walked only about one minute from their gate to the baggage claim area and then stood around for roughly seven minutes. The solution was not to speed up the bags. Instead, the airport moved arriving flights to gates farther from baggage claim, so passengers spent most of the time walking. Complaints reportedly dropped sharply, even though the total time from plane to bag had not gotten any shorter.

(3) The lesson is that unoccupied time feels longer than occupied time. This is why many restaurants hand out menus to people waiting for a table, and why some building managers place mirrors near elevators. People who are reading, checking their appearance or simply moving tend to notice the minutes less.

(4) Uncertainty also stretches time. A wait with no end in sight produces more anxiety than a wait of known length, even a long one. For this reason, many phone systems now announce an estimated hold time, and theme parks post signs at the entrance to each line showing how many minutes remain. Some parks have been known to post estimates slightly longer than the real wait, so that guests are pleasantly surprised when they reach the front sooner than expected.

(5) Fairness matters, too. People tolerate a long wait more easily if they believe everyone is being treated the same way. Few things anger customers more than watching someone who arrived later get served first. That is one reason many banks and stores have replaced several separate checkout lines with a single line that feeds into multiple registers. A single line may not shorten the average wait by much, but it guarantees that customers are served in the order they arrived, and it removes the frustration of choosing the "wrong" line.

(6) None of these techniques makes waiting pleasant. But they suggest that businesses have more options than simply hiring more workers or buying faster machines. Sometimes the most effective way to improve a customer's experience is to change not the clock, but the customer's sense of time.

(1) The radio said frost by midnight, and Tomás's grandmother was already pulling on her boots.

(2) "It's April," Tomás said. "Isn't it too late for frost?"

(3) "It's never too late for anything," Abuela Inés said. "That's the first thing the orchard teaches you." She handed him a flashlight and a pair of work gloves two sizes too big.

(4) Tomás had been on the farm for nine days. His mother had sent him from the city for the spring, after the trouble at school, a trouble that nobody in the family discussed out loud, which was fine with him. So far, the farm had been mostly mud, early alarms and a grandmother who talked to her trees as if they were slightly disappointing employees.

(5) Outside, the air already had a bite to it. The peach trees stood in long rows down the hill, every branch covered in pink blossoms that glowed faintly in the flashlight beam. Tomás had to admit they were beautiful. "If the blossoms freeze," Abuela said, "there are no peaches. Not this year. One night can take a whole year's work."

(6) They spent the next two hours dragging old metal barrels into the rows and filling them with scrap wood. Abuela showed him how to space the fires so the heat would drift through the lowest branches, where the cold settled first. Then they started the sprinklers on the bottom rows. Tomás didn't understand why anyone would spray water on trees that were about to freeze.

(7) "Ice protects," she said when he asked. "When water freezes, it gives off a little heat. As long as we keep the water coming, the blossom inside stays just above freezing. Stop too soon, and the ice steals the heat back." She shrugged. "My father figured that out before the university did."

(8) By two in the morning, Tomás's hands ached and his jeans were stiff with ice. Twice he wanted to go inside. Twice he looked at his grandmother, seventy-three years old, feeding wood into a barrel fire with her bare hands because her own gloves had gotten soaked, and he stayed.

(9) Around four, they sat on an overturned crate between two barrels. Abuela poured coffee from a thermos into the cap and handed it to him without asking whether he drank coffee. He didn't, usually. He drank it.

(10) "Your mother hated this," she said. "Frost nights. She used to hide under the covers and pretend she didn't hear the radio."

(11) Tomás laughed. He couldn't picture his mother hiding from anything.

(12) "She was good at it, though, once she came out," Abuela went on. "Faster than me with the barrels. She just had to decide it was worth it first." She looked at him sideways, then back at the trees. "Most things are like that."

(13) Tomás said nothing. He watched the fire shift and settle. He thought about the classroom, the shouting, the door he had slammed hard enough to crack the glass. He thought about how easy it had been, afterward, to decide that nothing was worth it.

(14) The sun came up pale and cold. The sprinklers had coated the lowest branches in clear ice, each pink blossom sealed inside like something in a museum case. Abuela walked the rows slowly, tapping the ice with one finger, cutting open a blossom here and there with her pocketknife and peering at the center.

(15) At the end of the third row, she held one up for him to see. The tiny center was still green.

(16) "Alive," she said.

(17) Tomás let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He was surprised by how much he cared.

(18) "We lost the top of the hill," Abuela said. "Maybe a third. But we'll have peaches." She folded the knife and put it in her pocket. "Go sleep. Tonight might be cold again."

(19) "Then wake me up," Tomás said. "I'll do the barrels."

(20) His grandmother looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, the way she nodded at the trees when they were doing what she expected of them.

(1) The radio said frost by midnight, and Tomás's grandmother was already pulling on her boots.

(2) "It's April," Tomás said. "Isn't it too late for frost?"

(3) "It's never too late for anything," Abuela Inés said. "That's the first thing the orchard teaches you." She handed him a flashlight and a pair of work gloves two sizes too big.

(4) Tomás had been on the farm for nine days. His mother had sent him from the city for the spring, after the trouble at school, a trouble that nobody in the family discussed out loud, which was fine with him. So far, the farm had been mostly mud, early alarms and a grandmother who talked to her trees as if they were slightly disappointing employees.

(5) Outside, the air already had a bite to it. The peach trees stood in long rows down the hill, every branch covered in pink blossoms that glowed faintly in the flashlight beam. Tomás had to admit they were beautiful. "If the blossoms freeze," Abuela said, "there are no peaches. Not this year. One night can take a whole year's work."

(6) They spent the next two hours dragging old metal barrels into the rows and filling them with scrap wood. Abuela showed him how to space the fires so the heat would drift through the lowest branches, where the cold settled first. Then they started the sprinklers on the bottom rows. Tomás didn't understand why anyone would spray water on trees that were about to freeze.

(7) "Ice protects," she said when he asked. "When water freezes, it gives off a little heat. As long as we keep the water coming, the blossom inside stays just above freezing. Stop too soon, and the ice steals the heat back." She shrugged. "My father figured that out before the university did."

(8) By two in the morning, Tomás's hands ached and his jeans were stiff with ice. Twice he wanted to go inside. Twice he looked at his grandmother, seventy-three years old, feeding wood into a barrel fire with her bare hands because her own gloves had gotten soaked, and he stayed.

(9) Around four, they sat on an overturned crate between two barrels. Abuela poured coffee from a thermos into the cap and handed it to him without asking whether he drank coffee. He didn't, usually. He drank it.

(10) "Your mother hated this," she said. "Frost nights. She used to hide under the covers and pretend she didn't hear the radio."

(11) Tomás laughed. He couldn't picture his mother hiding from anything.

(12) "She was good at it, though, once she came out," Abuela went on. "Faster than me with the barrels. She just had to decide it was worth it first." She looked at him sideways, then back at the trees. "Most things are like that."

(13) Tomás said nothing. He watched the fire shift and settle. He thought about the classroom, the shouting, the door he had slammed hard enough to crack the glass. He thought about how easy it had been, afterward, to decide that nothing was worth it.

(14) The sun came up pale and cold. The sprinklers had coated the lowest branches in clear ice, each pink blossom sealed inside like something in a museum case. Abuela walked the rows slowly, tapping the ice with one finger, cutting open a blossom here and there with her pocketknife and peering at the center.

(15) At the end of the third row, she held one up for him to see. The tiny center was still green.

(16) "Alive," she said.

(17) Tomás let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He was surprised by how much he cared.

(18) "We lost the top of the hill," Abuela said. "Maybe a third. But we'll have peaches." She folded the knife and put it in her pocket. "Go sleep. Tonight might be cold again."

(19) "Then wake me up," Tomás said. "I'll do the barrels."

(20) His grandmother looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, the way she nodded at the trees when they were doing what she expected of them.

(1) The radio said frost by midnight, and Tomás's grandmother was already pulling on her boots.

(2) "It's April," Tomás said. "Isn't it too late for frost?"

(3) "It's never too late for anything," Abuela Inés said. "That's the first thing the orchard teaches you." She handed him a flashlight and a pair of work gloves two sizes too big.

(4) Tomás had been on the farm for nine days. His mother had sent him from the city for the spring, after the trouble at school, a trouble that nobody in the family discussed out loud, which was fine with him. So far, the farm had been mostly mud, early alarms and a grandmother who talked to her trees as if they were slightly disappointing employees.

(5) Outside, the air already had a bite to it. The peach trees stood in long rows down the hill, every branch covered in pink blossoms that glowed faintly in the flashlight beam. Tomás had to admit they were beautiful. "If the blossoms freeze," Abuela said, "there are no peaches. Not this year. One night can take a whole year's work."

(6) They spent the next two hours dragging old metal barrels into the rows and filling them with scrap wood. Abuela showed him how to space the fires so the heat would drift through the lowest branches, where the cold settled first. Then they started the sprinklers on the bottom rows. Tomás didn't understand why anyone would spray water on trees that were about to freeze.

(7) "Ice protects," she said when he asked. "When water freezes, it gives off a little heat. As long as we keep the water coming, the blossom inside stays just above freezing. Stop too soon, and the ice steals the heat back." She shrugged. "My father figured that out before the university did."

(8) By two in the morning, Tomás's hands ached and his jeans were stiff with ice. Twice he wanted to go inside. Twice he looked at his grandmother, seventy-three years old, feeding wood into a barrel fire with her bare hands because her own gloves had gotten soaked, and he stayed.

(9) Around four, they sat on an overturned crate between two barrels. Abuela poured coffee from a thermos into the cap and handed it to him without asking whether he drank coffee. He didn't, usually. He drank it.

(10) "Your mother hated this," she said. "Frost nights. She used to hide under the covers and pretend she didn't hear the radio."

(11) Tomás laughed. He couldn't picture his mother hiding from anything.

(12) "She was good at it, though, once she came out," Abuela went on. "Faster than me with the barrels. She just had to decide it was worth it first." She looked at him sideways, then back at the trees. "Most things are like that."

(13) Tomás said nothing. He watched the fire shift and settle. He thought about the classroom, the shouting, the door he had slammed hard enough to crack the glass. He thought about how easy it had been, afterward, to decide that nothing was worth it.

(14) The sun came up pale and cold. The sprinklers had coated the lowest branches in clear ice, each pink blossom sealed inside like something in a museum case. Abuela walked the rows slowly, tapping the ice with one finger, cutting open a blossom here and there with her pocketknife and peering at the center.

(15) At the end of the third row, she held one up for him to see. The tiny center was still green.

(16) "Alive," she said.

(17) Tomás let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He was surprised by how much he cared.

(18) "We lost the top of the hill," Abuela said. "Maybe a third. But we'll have peaches." She folded the knife and put it in her pocket. "Go sleep. Tonight might be cold again."

(19) "Then wake me up," Tomás said. "I'll do the barrels."

(20) His grandmother looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, the way she nodded at the trees when they were doing what she expected of them.

(1) The radio said frost by midnight, and Tomás's grandmother was already pulling on her boots.

(2) "It's April," Tomás said. "Isn't it too late for frost?"

(3) "It's never too late for anything," Abuela Inés said. "That's the first thing the orchard teaches you." She handed him a flashlight and a pair of work gloves two sizes too big.

(4) Tomás had been on the farm for nine days. His mother had sent him from the city for the spring, after the trouble at school, a trouble that nobody in the family discussed out loud, which was fine with him. So far, the farm had been mostly mud, early alarms and a grandmother who talked to her trees as if they were slightly disappointing employees.

(5) Outside, the air already had a bite to it. The peach trees stood in long rows down the hill, every branch covered in pink blossoms that glowed faintly in the flashlight beam. Tomás had to admit they were beautiful. "If the blossoms freeze," Abuela said, "there are no peaches. Not this year. One night can take a whole year's work."

(6) They spent the next two hours dragging old metal barrels into the rows and filling them with scrap wood. Abuela showed him how to space the fires so the heat would drift through the lowest branches, where the cold settled first. Then they started the sprinklers on the bottom rows. Tomás didn't understand why anyone would spray water on trees that were about to freeze.

(7) "Ice protects," she said when he asked. "When water freezes, it gives off a little heat. As long as we keep the water coming, the blossom inside stays just above freezing. Stop too soon, and the ice steals the heat back." She shrugged. "My father figured that out before the university did."

(8) By two in the morning, Tomás's hands ached and his jeans were stiff with ice. Twice he wanted to go inside. Twice he looked at his grandmother, seventy-three years old, feeding wood into a barrel fire with her bare hands because her own gloves had gotten soaked, and he stayed.

(9) Around four, they sat on an overturned crate between two barrels. Abuela poured coffee from a thermos into the cap and handed it to him without asking whether he drank coffee. He didn't, usually. He drank it.

(10) "Your mother hated this," she said. "Frost nights. She used to hide under the covers and pretend she didn't hear the radio."

(11) Tomás laughed. He couldn't picture his mother hiding from anything.

(12) "She was good at it, though, once she came out," Abuela went on. "Faster than me with the barrels. She just had to decide it was worth it first." She looked at him sideways, then back at the trees. "Most things are like that."

(13) Tomás said nothing. He watched the fire shift and settle. He thought about the classroom, the shouting, the door he had slammed hard enough to crack the glass. He thought about how easy it had been, afterward, to decide that nothing was worth it.

(14) The sun came up pale and cold. The sprinklers had coated the lowest branches in clear ice, each pink blossom sealed inside like something in a museum case. Abuela walked the rows slowly, tapping the ice with one finger, cutting open a blossom here and there with her pocketknife and peering at the center.

(15) At the end of the third row, she held one up for him to see. The tiny center was still green.

(16) "Alive," she said.

(17) Tomás let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He was surprised by how much he cared.

(18) "We lost the top of the hill," Abuela said. "Maybe a third. But we'll have peaches." She folded the knife and put it in her pocket. "Go sleep. Tonight might be cold again."

(19) "Then wake me up," Tomás said. "I'll do the barrels."

(20) His grandmother looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, the way she nodded at the trees when they were doing what she expected of them.

(1) The radio said frost by midnight, and Tomás's grandmother was already pulling on her boots.

(2) "It's April," Tomás said. "Isn't it too late for frost?"

(3) "It's never too late for anything," Abuela Inés said. "That's the first thing the orchard teaches you." She handed him a flashlight and a pair of work gloves two sizes too big.

(4) Tomás had been on the farm for nine days. His mother had sent him from the city for the spring, after the trouble at school, a trouble that nobody in the family discussed out loud, which was fine with him. So far, the farm had been mostly mud, early alarms and a grandmother who talked to her trees as if they were slightly disappointing employees.

(5) Outside, the air already had a bite to it. The peach trees stood in long rows down the hill, every branch covered in pink blossoms that glowed faintly in the flashlight beam. Tomás had to admit they were beautiful. "If the blossoms freeze," Abuela said, "there are no peaches. Not this year. One night can take a whole year's work."

(6) They spent the next two hours dragging old metal barrels into the rows and filling them with scrap wood. Abuela showed him how to space the fires so the heat would drift through the lowest branches, where the cold settled first. Then they started the sprinklers on the bottom rows. Tomás didn't understand why anyone would spray water on trees that were about to freeze.

(7) "Ice protects," she said when he asked. "When water freezes, it gives off a little heat. As long as we keep the water coming, the blossom inside stays just above freezing. Stop too soon, and the ice steals the heat back." She shrugged. "My father figured that out before the university did."

(8) By two in the morning, Tomás's hands ached and his jeans were stiff with ice. Twice he wanted to go inside. Twice he looked at his grandmother, seventy-three years old, feeding wood into a barrel fire with her bare hands because her own gloves had gotten soaked, and he stayed.

(9) Around four, they sat on an overturned crate between two barrels. Abuela poured coffee from a thermos into the cap and handed it to him without asking whether he drank coffee. He didn't, usually. He drank it.

(10) "Your mother hated this," she said. "Frost nights. She used to hide under the covers and pretend she didn't hear the radio."

(11) Tomás laughed. He couldn't picture his mother hiding from anything.

(12) "She was good at it, though, once she came out," Abuela went on. "Faster than me with the barrels. She just had to decide it was worth it first." She looked at him sideways, then back at the trees. "Most things are like that."

(13) Tomás said nothing. He watched the fire shift and settle. He thought about the classroom, the shouting, the door he had slammed hard enough to crack the glass. He thought about how easy it had been, afterward, to decide that nothing was worth it.

(14) The sun came up pale and cold. The sprinklers had coated the lowest branches in clear ice, each pink blossom sealed inside like something in a museum case. Abuela walked the rows slowly, tapping the ice with one finger, cutting open a blossom here and there with her pocketknife and peering at the center.

(15) At the end of the third row, she held one up for him to see. The tiny center was still green.

(16) "Alive," she said.

(17) Tomás let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He was surprised by how much he cared.

(18) "We lost the top of the hill," Abuela said. "Maybe a third. But we'll have peaches." She folded the knife and put it in her pocket. "Go sleep. Tonight might be cold again."

(19) "Then wake me up," Tomás said. "I'll do the barrels."

(20) His grandmother looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, the way she nodded at the trees when they were doing what she expected of them.

(1) For much of the year, a typical Midwestern corn or soybean field is busy. Seeds go into the ground in spring, plants grow through the summer, and combines roll through in fall. But after harvest, many fields sit bare from October until the next planting in April or May. For about half the year, nothing is growing to hold the soil in place.

(2) That bare ground is vulnerable. Heavy rain can wash topsoil into ditches and streams, and strong winds can carry it away in clouds of dust. Americans learned this lesson painfully in the 1930s, when severe drought and years of plowing that left soil exposed helped create the Dust Bowl on the southern Great Plains. Today's erosion is usually far less dramatic, but it is steady. Topsoil, the dark upper layer that holds most of the nutrients plants need, forms extremely slowly, often over centuries, so every inch that is lost is, in human terms, gone for good.

(3) A growing number of farmers are filling the gap with cover crops: plants grown not to be sold but to protect and improve the soil between cash crops. Common choices include cereal rye, oats, clover and radishes. Planted in late summer or fall, cover crops put down roots that hold soil in place through winter storms. In spring, the farmer kills the cover crop, often by rolling it flat or mowing it, and plants the main crop directly into the remains.

(4) Cover crops do more than block erosion. Clover, vetch and other legumes work with bacteria in their roots to pull nitrogen from the air and store it in the soil, where the next crop can use it. That reduces the amount of fertilizer a farmer needs to buy. Deep-rooted plants such as radishes break up packed soil, opening channels that help rainwater soak in instead of running off. And as cover crops decay, they add organic matter that helps soil hold water during dry spells. Fertilizer that stays in the field is fertilizer that does not wash into rivers, where excess nitrogen and phosphorus can feed harmful algae blooms downstream.

(5) If cover crops are so useful, why don't all farmers plant them? The answer is mostly practical. Seed and planting cost money, often tens of dollars per acre, and the benefits to soil health may take several years to show up in harvests. Where the growing season is short, it can be hard to plant a cover crop in time after fall harvest. Some farmers worry that a cover crop will use up spring moisture the cash crop needs, or that killing it will add another chore to a busy planting season. For a farmer working on thin profit margins, a cost that pays off "eventually" can be hard to justify.

(6) To ease those concerns, the U.S. Department of Agriculture and several states offer payments to farmers who try cover crops, and some farmer groups organize field days where neighbors share what has worked for them. The practice is spreading. According to the federal Census of Agriculture, farmers planted cover crops on about 18 million acres in 2022, up from about 15 million acres five years earlier. That is still only a small share of the nation's cropland, but the trend points in one direction.

(7) Supporters like to say that cover crops let farmers "farm the soil, not just the crop." The idea is that the soil itself is the farm's most valuable long-term asset, and that a field left bare all winter is a field slowly losing ground.

(1) For much of the year, a typical Midwestern corn or soybean field is busy. Seeds go into the ground in spring, plants grow through the summer, and combines roll through in fall. But after harvest, many fields sit bare from October until the next planting in April or May. For about half the year, nothing is growing to hold the soil in place.

(2) That bare ground is vulnerable. Heavy rain can wash topsoil into ditches and streams, and strong winds can carry it away in clouds of dust. Americans learned this lesson painfully in the 1930s, when severe drought and years of plowing that left soil exposed helped create the Dust Bowl on the southern Great Plains. Today's erosion is usually far less dramatic, but it is steady. Topsoil, the dark upper layer that holds most of the nutrients plants need, forms extremely slowly, often over centuries, so every inch that is lost is, in human terms, gone for good.

(3) A growing number of farmers are filling the gap with cover crops: plants grown not to be sold but to protect and improve the soil between cash crops. Common choices include cereal rye, oats, clover and radishes. Planted in late summer or fall, cover crops put down roots that hold soil in place through winter storms. In spring, the farmer kills the cover crop, often by rolling it flat or mowing it, and plants the main crop directly into the remains.

(4) Cover crops do more than block erosion. Clover, vetch and other legumes work with bacteria in their roots to pull nitrogen from the air and store it in the soil, where the next crop can use it. That reduces the amount of fertilizer a farmer needs to buy. Deep-rooted plants such as radishes break up packed soil, opening channels that help rainwater soak in instead of running off. And as cover crops decay, they add organic matter that helps soil hold water during dry spells. Fertilizer that stays in the field is fertilizer that does not wash into rivers, where excess nitrogen and phosphorus can feed harmful algae blooms downstream.

(5) If cover crops are so useful, why don't all farmers plant them? The answer is mostly practical. Seed and planting cost money, often tens of dollars per acre, and the benefits to soil health may take several years to show up in harvests. Where the growing season is short, it can be hard to plant a cover crop in time after fall harvest. Some farmers worry that a cover crop will use up spring moisture the cash crop needs, or that killing it will add another chore to a busy planting season. For a farmer working on thin profit margins, a cost that pays off "eventually" can be hard to justify.

(6) To ease those concerns, the U.S. Department of Agriculture and several states offer payments to farmers who try cover crops, and some farmer groups organize field days where neighbors share what has worked for them. The practice is spreading. According to the federal Census of Agriculture, farmers planted cover crops on about 18 million acres in 2022, up from about 15 million acres five years earlier. That is still only a small share of the nation's cropland, but the trend points in one direction.

(7) Supporters like to say that cover crops let farmers "farm the soil, not just the crop." The idea is that the soil itself is the farm's most valuable long-term asset, and that a field left bare all winter is a field slowly losing ground.

(1) For much of the year, a typical Midwestern corn or soybean field is busy. Seeds go into the ground in spring, plants grow through the summer, and combines roll through in fall. But after harvest, many fields sit bare from October until the next planting in April or May. For about half the year, nothing is growing to hold the soil in place.

(2) That bare ground is vulnerable. Heavy rain can wash topsoil into ditches and streams, and strong winds can carry it away in clouds of dust. Americans learned this lesson painfully in the 1930s, when severe drought and years of plowing that left soil exposed helped create the Dust Bowl on the southern Great Plains. Today's erosion is usually far less dramatic, but it is steady. Topsoil, the dark upper layer that holds most of the nutrients plants need, forms extremely slowly, often over centuries, so every inch that is lost is, in human terms, gone for good.

(3) A growing number of farmers are filling the gap with cover crops: plants grown not to be sold but to protect and improve the soil between cash crops. Common choices include cereal rye, oats, clover and radishes. Planted in late summer or fall, cover crops put down roots that hold soil in place through winter storms. In spring, the farmer kills the cover crop, often by rolling it flat or mowing it, and plants the main crop directly into the remains.

(4) Cover crops do more than block erosion. Clover, vetch and other legumes work with bacteria in their roots to pull nitrogen from the air and store it in the soil, where the next crop can use it. That reduces the amount of fertilizer a farmer needs to buy. Deep-rooted plants such as radishes break up packed soil, opening channels that help rainwater soak in instead of running off. And as cover crops decay, they add organic matter that helps soil hold water during dry spells. Fertilizer that stays in the field is fertilizer that does not wash into rivers, where excess nitrogen and phosphorus can feed harmful algae blooms downstream.

(5) If cover crops are so useful, why don't all farmers plant them? The answer is mostly practical. Seed and planting cost money, often tens of dollars per acre, and the benefits to soil health may take several years to show up in harvests. Where the growing season is short, it can be hard to plant a cover crop in time after fall harvest. Some farmers worry that a cover crop will use up spring moisture the cash crop needs, or that killing it will add another chore to a busy planting season. For a farmer working on thin profit margins, a cost that pays off "eventually" can be hard to justify.

(6) To ease those concerns, the U.S. Department of Agriculture and several states offer payments to farmers who try cover crops, and some farmer groups organize field days where neighbors share what has worked for them. The practice is spreading. According to the federal Census of Agriculture, farmers planted cover crops on about 18 million acres in 2022, up from about 15 million acres five years earlier. That is still only a small share of the nation's cropland, but the trend points in one direction.

(7) Supporters like to say that cover crops let farmers "farm the soil, not just the crop." The idea is that the soil itself is the farm's most valuable long-term asset, and that a field left bare all winter is a field slowly losing ground.

(1) For much of the year, a typical Midwestern corn or soybean field is busy. Seeds go into the ground in spring, plants grow through the summer, and combines roll through in fall. But after harvest, many fields sit bare from October until the next planting in April or May. For about half the year, nothing is growing to hold the soil in place.

(2) That bare ground is vulnerable. Heavy rain can wash topsoil into ditches and streams, and strong winds can carry it away in clouds of dust. Americans learned this lesson painfully in the 1930s, when severe drought and years of plowing that left soil exposed helped create the Dust Bowl on the southern Great Plains. Today's erosion is usually far less dramatic, but it is steady. Topsoil, the dark upper layer that holds most of the nutrients plants need, forms extremely slowly, often over centuries, so every inch that is lost is, in human terms, gone for good.

(3) A growing number of farmers are filling the gap with cover crops: plants grown not to be sold but to protect and improve the soil between cash crops. Common choices include cereal rye, oats, clover and radishes. Planted in late summer or fall, cover crops put down roots that hold soil in place through winter storms. In spring, the farmer kills the cover crop, often by rolling it flat or mowing it, and plants the main crop directly into the remains.

(4) Cover crops do more than block erosion. Clover, vetch and other legumes work with bacteria in their roots to pull nitrogen from the air and store it in the soil, where the next crop can use it. That reduces the amount of fertilizer a farmer needs to buy. Deep-rooted plants such as radishes break up packed soil, opening channels that help rainwater soak in instead of running off. And as cover crops decay, they add organic matter that helps soil hold water during dry spells. Fertilizer that stays in the field is fertilizer that does not wash into rivers, where excess nitrogen and phosphorus can feed harmful algae blooms downstream.

(5) If cover crops are so useful, why don't all farmers plant them? The answer is mostly practical. Seed and planting cost money, often tens of dollars per acre, and the benefits to soil health may take several years to show up in harvests. Where the growing season is short, it can be hard to plant a cover crop in time after fall harvest. Some farmers worry that a cover crop will use up spring moisture the cash crop needs, or that killing it will add another chore to a busy planting season. For a farmer working on thin profit margins, a cost that pays off "eventually" can be hard to justify.

(6) To ease those concerns, the U.S. Department of Agriculture and several states offer payments to farmers who try cover crops, and some farmer groups organize field days where neighbors share what has worked for them. The practice is spreading. According to the federal Census of Agriculture, farmers planted cover crops on about 18 million acres in 2022, up from about 15 million acres five years earlier. That is still only a small share of the nation's cropland, but the trend points in one direction.

(7) Supporters like to say that cover crops let farmers "farm the soil, not just the crop." The idea is that the soil itself is the farm's most valuable long-term asset, and that a field left bare all winter is a field slowly losing ground.