He became still.
“What notebook?”
“The one in the attic.”
Her father sighed.
“You’ve been reading his engineering notes?”
“They aren’t engineering.”
“What are they?”
“Mostly cows.”
Despite himself, he laughed.
The Farm Girl continued.
“He wrote about the trough line.”
Her father looked over the reservoir again.
“We’ll measure.”
They had no surveying equipment.
They improvised.
String.
Stakes.
A carpenter’s level.
A long clear hose partly filled with water.
The process took hours.
The Farm Girl did not understand every calculation.
Her father did.
The more they measured, the quieter he became.
By sunset, he had a number.
The field sat substantially below the reservoir.
Not enough for high-pressure sprinklers.
Possibly enough for gravity flow through open furrows or low-pressure outlets if the pipe losses were manageable.
The Farm Girl watched his face.
“Will it work?”
He looked toward the field.
“Maybe.”
She smiled.
He raised one finger.
“Maybe does not mean yes.”
“It doesn’t mean no.”
Her father shook his head.
“You sound like your mother.”
That silenced her.
Her mother had believed impossible things longer than anyone.
She had also been wrong sometimes.
The Farm Girl knew both could be true.
The next morning, they went for the scrap pipe.
The Neighbor Farmer stood in the yard when the old pickup arrived.
He laughed the moment he saw them.
“You’re serious.”
The Farm Girl climbed down.
“Yes.”
The second Farmer emerged from the barn.
“What’s the plan?”
Her father opened the truck bed.
“Don’t ask.”
The Farm Girl answered anyway.
“Gravity.”
The men exchanged looks.
Then the Neighbor Farmer grinned.
“Gravity.”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
She pointed vaguely toward her farm.
“Uphill.”
That was enough to start the laughter again.
Her father flinched.
The Farm Girl did not.
She began lifting pipe.
The Neighbor Farmer watched.
After a minute, he helped.
Not because he believed.
Because even mockery had limits when a ten-year-old was carrying steel.
They loaded the first truck bed.
The Neighbor Farmer pointed toward a pile of rusted valves.
“Take those too.”
“Thanks.”
“Most are frozen.”
“I know.”
“Couplers leak.”
“I know.”
“Half that line won’t hold pressure.”
“We don’t need high pressure.”
The Neighbor Farmer looked at her.
“You sure?”
“No.”
That answer surprised him.
The Farm Girl continued.
“That’s why we test it.”
The laughter stopped for a moment.
Then the second Farmer shook his head.
“You’re going to learn a lesson.”
The Farm Girl lifted another fitting.
“Probably.”
Her father heard.
He smiled.
For the next ten days, their yard became a salvage workshop.