Walter had woken up. The nurse said he was weak, but he had asked for me and for Trevor, and he had asked about the tractor. Trevor sank onto a hay bale, and the men around him looked away. He admitted he had been terrified of losing his father and drowning in debt, and he had done the one stupid thing that made it worse.

Hank pulled Lot 44 from the sale, and the old farmers loaded the tractor onto a flatbed, driving it back themselves. They refused any pay. Several offered to cover Trevor’s loan payment, and Trevor, crying, said he would work it off. I told him he could, on Walter’s land, beside his father, when he was well enough to supervise.

At the hospital, Walter could barely lift his hand, but he squeezed Trevor’s fingers. He said nothing about the tractor, only that he was glad his boy had come. Trevor wept on the edge of the bed, and I knew a harder conversation lay ahead, and a gentler one beyond it.

By Labor Day, Walter was home, thin and slow. The Farmall led the parade with Trevor at the wheel and Walter beside him, wearing his old cap. The crowd cheered, and four hundred farmers stood along the road with their hats in their hands.