He looked away.
“My manager handles it.”
“Your manager believed somebody else handled it.”
He bristled.
“You don’t know that.”
She opened the filter housing.
Black sediment covered the screen.
“Looks like I do.”
They cleaned enough to restore some flow.
Not full.
But better.
When they finished, the first stars were appearing.
The Older Farmer looked toward her orchard.
White trunks were beginning to glow beneath portable work lights.
“You really think your father would have done all this?”
The Young Farmer wiped her hands.
“No.”
He looked surprised.
“He hated sensors.”
The Older Farmer laughed once.
“That sounds more like him.”
“He also lost trees because he trusted memory more than measurement.”
“You think that makes him stupid?”
“No.”
“I think he taught me with his mistakes too.”
That answer silenced the Older Farmer.
They returned across the road.
At nine, the temperature reached twenty-nine.
At nine-forty, twenty-eight.
The Young Farmer activated the lower orchard system.
Water began moving through the lines.
A soft mechanical hiss spread across the rows.
The men who had laughed earlier returned in pickups.
Not to mock.
To ask questions.
“How long do you run it?”
“When do you shut it off?”
“What happens if wind picks up?”
“How much water do you need?”
The Young Farmer answered what she could.
Then told them what she would not guess about.
“This isn’t magic.”
“If you don’t know your system capacity, don’t copy mine blindly.”
One farmer looked annoyed.
“You’re the one doing it.”
“On equipment I tested.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
“That’s exactly the point.”
The Extension Specialist returned around ten.
He helped check bud temperatures.
The forecast worsened.
Twenty-two possible.
The Young Farmer went quiet.
That was lower than she had designed around.
The retired technician saw her face.
“You still have the upper tank.”
“For two hours.”
“Maybe that’s all we need.”
“Maybe.”
He touched her shoulder.
“You built more protection than anyone else out here.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s enough.”
“No.”
“But it means you did the work.”
At ten-thirty, the Older Farmer drove up again.
This time his face carried no pride.
“East pump lost pressure.”
The Young Farmer stared.
“Again?”
“Different problem.”
She looked toward her own system.
The retired technician understood before she spoke.
“Go.”
“You sure?”
“I taught your father half of what he knew about plumbing.”
“You remind me every week.”
“Then trust me once.”
She grabbed her coat.
The Older Farmer drove too fast across the road.
His east line had split.
Not completely.
Enough to bleed pressure.
The damaged section ran along an area hidden beneath tall grass.
A fitting had cracked during winter.
Nobody had noticed.
The Young Farmer looked at the sky.