Originally they had dreamed about watering most of the field.
Reality reduced the plan.
They would target the best section.
The highest-yielding twenty acres closest to the line.
Not enough to save everything.
Enough, possibly, to create a harvest.
The Farm Girl hated abandoning the rest.
Her father did too.
But farming was full of decisions nobody wanted to make.
The system took shape.
A main line descended from the old reservoir along the edge of the former cattle pasture.
They avoided the steepest slope where possible.
Secured pipes against movement.
Placed simple supports under sagging sections.
At the field, the line split.
One branch ran along the upper soybean rows.
Another toward the center.
A third toward the lower section.
Instead of sprinklers requiring more pressure, they created low outlets feeding shallow irrigation furrows cut between rows.
Crude.
Uneven.
Potentially wasteful if not monitored.
But within the limits of the materials, possible.
Every connection was tested first with small amounts of water.
Leaks appeared immediately.
The Farm Girl expected disappointment.
Instead she smiled.
Her father stared.
“What?”
“A leak means water got this far.”
He laughed.
They repaired it.
Another leak.
Repair.
Another.
Repair.
One coupling sprayed water fifteen feet.
The Farm Girl screamed and jumped backward.
Her father laughed until he had to sit down.
She threw a wet glove at him.
Even she laughed.
For ten minutes, drought did not exist.
Then they shut the valve.
Returned to work.
The reservoir became the bigger problem.
They needed to know volume.
Her father estimated.
The Farm Girl recorded.
Too little to flood the field deeply.
Enough for controlled releases.
Maybe.
The reservoir received a small constant seep from the hillside.
Not much.
But during the night, water level rose slightly after daytime releases.
The Farm Girl began measuring the waterline every morning and evening.
She drove a marked stake into the bank.
Day one.
Day two.
Day three.
The seep rate was low but reliable.
Her father calculated.
They could not run continuously.
They could release water in intervals.
Let the reservoir recover.
Water one section.
Close.
Wait.
Water another.
Not ideal.
Better than nothing.
Then the old reservoir outlet failed.
Three days before they planned full operation, the Farm Girl opened the valve during testing.
The stem turned.
The internal gate did not.
No flow.
Her father removed the top assembly.
Rust.
Scale.
A damaged gate.
He sat back in the dirt.
“That’s it.”
The Farm Girl stared.
“What?”
“We can’t trust this.”
“Can we replace it?”
“With what?”
She looked toward the scrap pile.
Her father laughed without humor.
“Not this time.”
The Farm Girl walked around the reservoir.
She hated the feeling rising in her chest.
All the pipes.