At four in the morning, the Farm Girl climbed from the combine.
Her legs barely worked.
The Old Farmer handed her coffee.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I’m seventy.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
He laughed.
“You’ve gotten rude.”
“I learned from neighbors.”
By sunrise, twenty-eight acres were harvested.
Rain moved closer.
Radar showed red.
Twelve acres remained.
The Old Farmer looked at the sky.
“We might not make it.”
The Farm Girl closed her eyes.
Then opened them.
“Keep going.”
At nine, the wind increased.
At ten, clouds covered the sun.
The sunflowers rocked.
At eleven, the combine entered the final five acres.
Lightning flashed far west.
Her mother called.
“Come in.”
“Five acres.”
“Lightning.”
“Not here yet.”
“Your father used to say that.”
The Farm Girl almost laughed.
“Is that supposed to persuade me?”
“No.”
Her mother sighed.
“Be careful.”
At noon, the first drops hit the windshield.
The combine finished the last row nineteen minutes later.
Rain began hard just as the grain cart crossed into the yard.
Everyone cheered.
The Farm Girl did not.
She sat inside the cab.
Hands still on the steering wheel.
The Old Farmer climbed onto the step.
“You done?”
She nodded.
He looked at her.
“You don’t look happy.”
“I don’t know the number.”
He stared.
Then laughed.
She finally did too.
The county certification took three days.
Every truck weight.
Moisture correction.
Acreage verification.
Storage adjustments.
The Farm Girl tried not to calculate.
Failed.
Her estimates suggested record.
Maybe.
Her mother banned calculators from the kitchen after midnight.
The Old Farmer called once.
“Stop doing arithmetic.”
“You called to say that?”
“Yes.”
“You’re also doing arithmetic.”
Silence.
“Good night.”
He hung up.
The official result arrived Friday afternoon.
The county inspector drove to Whitfield Farms personally.
That frightened her.
Her mother came outside.
The Old Farmer saw the county vehicle from his field and drove over.
Of course.
The inspector held a folder.
The Farm Girl looked at it.
“Just say it.”
He smiled.
“Full-field average breaks the county sunflower record.”
Silence.
The Farm Girl did not react.
Her mother did.
A cry.
Then a hug.
The Farm Girl remained stiff for one second.
Then collapsed into it.
The Old Farmer removed his cap.
The inspector continued.
“Not by a little.”
He gave the number.
The Farm Girl stared.
Higher than her own estimate.
Her mother cried harder.
The Old Farmer looked toward the field.
Then at the young woman.
“Your father would’ve—”