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Ross Franson stood on the road between two fields, where nothing grows under the Fresno County sun.

As a teen, Franson hauled a water tank to spray down the dust on roads like this — rolling past rows of almond and pistachio trees, the CD on his Discman skipping with every bump.

A quarter of a century later, with water supplies squeezed by , the dust has spread beyond the sunbaked track to barren fields. Now, on one side of the road, a field sits empty — fallowed, tire-tracked and dry. On the other stands a new crop: solar panels, in glassy black rows behind a chain-link fence.

“We’re farmers. We’d rather farm,” Franson said. Still, he added, “This is the only way I think people are going to survive out here, if they’re ab

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