“It still bales.”
“Eleven hundred eighty-four.”
“Yes.”
Morrison stood.
“One thousand.”
Caleb shook his head.
“Eleven.”
“Twelve.”
“You just said twelve.”
“That was before negotiating.”
Caleb smiled.
“One thousand one hundred fifty.”
Morrison pointed at him.
“You’ve been talking to your mother.”
“Maybe.”
“Eleven hundred.”
“Twelve.”
Morrison laughed.
“We’ll talk after second cutting.”
They never got that far.
August turned hot.
Then suddenly wet.
Rain came three days.
Stopped.
Forecast predicted four dry days, then storms.
Every farmer in the county moved.
Hay cut.
Tedded.
Raked.
Baled.
Equipment ran late.
Then Morrison’s main baler broke.
Not Caleb’s old gearbox donor.
His newer machine.
A drive shaft twisted on Wednesday afternoon.
Dealer could not get parts until Friday.
Storm expected Thursday night.
Forty-two acres of hay lay dry.
Mr. Morrison stood beside his broken baler staring at the weather.
Years of farming teach people when a problem is annoying and when it is expensive.
This was expensive.
If rain soaked the crop, quality would fall.
If storms remained multiple days, mold risk.
Morrison called three neighbors.
All using their machines.
Custom operator booked.
Dealer had no loaner.
At five twenty, he drove to the Turner farm.
Caleb was feeding cattle.
Morrison got out.
No joke.
No smile.
“Your baler available?”
Caleb looked toward him.
“When?”
“Now.”
“For how much ground?”
“Forty-two acres.”
Caleb whistled softly.
Morrison removed his cap.
“I know.”
“Storm?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Caleb looked toward the western sky.
“Your tractor?”
“Ready.”
“You need me driving?”
Morrison hesitated.
“I need your machine.”
Caleb wiped his hands.
“Machine comes with me.”
Morrison frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I know it.”
“I’ve baled forty years.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“If something changes, I hear it.”
The farmer stared.
Months earlier, he would have laughed.
Now he nodded.
“Fair.”
They left at six.
Sarah packed sandwiches.
Luke came because teenagers become very available when tractors may run after midnight.
At Morrison’s field, hay lay in long windrows.
Beautiful.
Dry.
Ready.
Clouds sat far west.
Caleb connected the rebuilt 276.
Morrison looked at it.
Same mismatched panels.
Same ugly paint.
The machine he once called scrap.
He touched the side.
“Funny.”
Caleb climbed onto the tractor.
“What?”