Private property became chaos.
Hannah’s phone began ringing before sunrise.
She did not answer every job.
Safety came first.
No work near live lines.
No unstable hung trees without proper assessment.
She partnered with two tree crews.
They cut.
She extracted.
The 648 worked every day except one for nearly three weeks.
Not sixteen-hour cowboy shifts.
Hannah refused.
Ten-hour maximum machine day.
Scheduled grease.
Inspection each morning.
Walter had taught her fatigue breaks machines and people.
Dale Bishop also worked the storm.
His company ran modern equipment on larger cleanup contracts.
He earned more gross revenue than Hannah.
Much more.
That was obvious.
But Hannah’s daily margin was strong because mobilization distances were short and machine debt nonexistent.
One evening she parked beside Dale’s fuel truck.
He leaned against the cab drinking coffee.
“You’re everywhere.”
“So are you.”
“I’ve got three machines.”
“I have one.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled.
“How many hours?”
“Eleven hundred forty productive since auction.”
Dale stared.
“You track productive versus engine?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.”
“What’s yours?”
He laughed.
“I have employees.”
“That means no?”
“That means I have software.”
“Do you look at it?”
He did not answer.
Hannah smiled.
Dale pointed at her.
“Don’t start.”
She climbed back into the Deere.
Year three began with an unexpected phone call from the same auction company where Hannah bought the skidder.
“Would you consign?”
“What?”
“The 648.”
“No.”
“We have a buyer asking.”
“How do they know I own it?”
“Serial history.”
“What are they offering?”
“Twenty-two thousand.”
Hannah laughed.
The auction representative sounded surprised.
“Machine’s old.”
“Yes.”
“Twenty-two is strong.”
“I know.”
“You have more than that invested?”
“About twenty-four.”
“Then you’d nearly recover everything.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it earns.”
Pause.
“How much?”
Hannah smiled.
“More than twenty-two.”
She declined.
Mark thought she was crazy.
“You could buy something newer.”
“With twenty-two?”
“Newer, not new.”
“And start over not knowing it?”
“You know this machine too well.”
“Exactly.”
Mark looked toward the skidder.
Paint faded.
Exhaust stack now straight.
Tires different brands.
New work lights.
Fresh seat.
Old cab.
It looked neither restored nor neglected.
Used.
Purposefully.
“Are you going to keep that forever?”
Hannah shrugged.
“Until numbers say stop.”
That phrase spread.