"If we can't get it out," she whispered, "we lose the farm."
The foreman didn't answer.
He had no comforting lie to offer.
Then a sound interrupted the conversation.
A low, uneven engine rumble.
Not the deep thunder of a modern diesel tractor.
Something older.
Slower.
Almost absurdly small compared with the machinery towering above the field.
Everyone turned.
A faded green 1953 John Deere tractor was coming down the gravel farm lane.
Its narrow front wheels bounced through shallow ruts. Its exposed engine coughed rhythmically, and a homemade single-shank drainage implement hung behind it.
Sitting in the driver's seat was a thirteen-year-old girl.
Her long auburn hair was tucked beneath an old olive-green cap.
She wore a blue-and-white striped farmer shirt, muddy denim overalls, a worn brown canvas jacket, and boots that looked several sizes too large.
Her small hands held the steering wheel firmly.
She wasn't smiling.
She was looking directly at the trapped combine.
The foreman stared in disbelief.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding."
The tractor stopped on firm ground near the field entrance.
The girl shut off the engine.
Then climbed down carefully.
She looked at the cranes.
The chains.
The enormous machine.
And the deep brown water trapped around its front tires.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she turned toward the foreman.
"You're pulling against the mud."
The man blinked.
"Excuse me?"
She pointed toward the combine.
"You're trying to lift it before you let the water out."
A recovery worker laughed.
The foreman didn't.
He was too irritated.
"Little lady, that machine weighs forty-five tons."
"About forty-one metric tons," she corrected softly. "And the mud's holding more than the weight."
The foreman's expression hardened.
"Listen, sweetheart. We've got equipment here worth several million dollars. This isn't a school science project."
The girl looked toward the smallest of the cranes.
Then toward the black water collected beneath the combine.
"My grandpa said you can pull a tractor against mud all day, but if the ground won't let go, all you're doing is fighting the ground."
The foreman sighed.
"Your grandpa isn't here."
The girl's expression changed.
Just slightly.
Then she answered.
"No, sir. He isn't."
Her mother hurried forward.
"Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?"
The girl looked toward her.
"I found his old drainage map."
Her mother froze.
"What map?"
"The one from before they filled the south ditch."
The foreman frowned.
"What south ditch?"
The girl pointed toward the cornfield.
The men followed her finger.
Beyond the combine, the field sloped almost imperceptibly toward a low line of grass beside the southern boundary.
It didn't look like much.
A shallow depression.
An old fence.