They agreed close enough to make him nervous.
He stood beside the sixth sampling point staring into the pan.
Corn kernels covered the bottom.
Far too many.
The bearded farmhand behind him called:
“You planting those again?”
The boy turned.
“Can I borrow the small scale?”
The men laughed again.
The farm owner was standing beside the grain cart now.
Sixty-one years old.
Gray beard.
Heavy canvas overalls.
A man who had harvested corn longer than the boy had been alive three times over.
He smiled.
“What are you doing, son?”
The boy walked toward him carrying the pan.
“Checking loss.”
The owner’s smile widened.
“We checked it yesterday.”
“When?”
“First field.”
“What was it?”
The owner shrugged.
“Fine.”
The boy looked at the pan.
“How much?”
One of the workers said:
“About as much as you’ve got there.”
The boy looked toward him.
“That was from twelve square feet.”
The worker stopped smiling slightly.
The farm owner held out his hand.
“Let me see.”
The boy gave him the pan.
The farmer looked down.
Then toward the combine.
“How many checks?”
“Six.”
“Consistent?”
“Four are bad.”
“Two?”
“Worse.”
The owner’s expression changed only slightly.
He had spent a lifetime being warned about disasters that turned out to be normal.
“Header loss?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I checked ahead of the machine first.”
The bearded worker folded his arms.
The boy continued:
“There’s almost nothing ahead of the rear axle.”
“Most is concentrated behind the separator.”
The owner looked toward him more carefully.
“Rotor?”
“Maybe.”
“Fan?”
“Maybe.”
The boy hesitated.
Then:
“But it’s heavier on one side.”
The owner frowned.
“What does the monitor say?”
“Normal.”
“How do you know?”
“Operator told you over the radio.”
The owner glanced toward his workers.
One man smiled faintly.
The boy had been listening.
The farmer handed the pan back.
“What’s your estimate?”
The boy swallowed.
This was the moment.
Not because he expected to be right.
Because numbers said something he did not want to say aloud.