"If the storm pattern changes, we could lose grade. If the wheat lodges, harvest gets slower. If hail comes—"
She stopped.
Ruth touched her arm.
"I know."
Claire swallowed.
"The operating note comes due after harvest."
"I know that too."
She looked down.
"I can't lose the farm."
Ruth turned toward her.
For a long moment, she studied her daughter's face.
Then spoke quietly.
"Claire, your father and I didn't spend forty years building this place so you could believe a single broken machine made you a failure."
Claire's eyes filled.
"It isn't just the machine."
"I know."
"The bank wants its money. The landlord on the eastern six hundred acres wants to know whether I'm renewing. Fuel prices are up. Labor costs are up."
She pressed one hand against her forehead.
"And every day, the wheat just sits there."
Ruth moved closer.
"You need help."
Claire laughed bitterly.
"That's what I've been asking for."
"Not only from AgriTech."
Claire turned.
Her mother looked toward the neighboring lights.
"Ask the people who understand what this means."
Claire shook her head.
"They've got their own crops."
"Some have finished fields. Some have extra capacity. Some have old equipment sitting in sheds."
"I can't ask everybody to abandon harvest for me."
Ruth studied her.
"Your father helped other farmers every year."
Claire looked away.
"That was different."
"How?"
She could not answer.
Ruth continued.
"Do you remember the winter when the neighbor's tractor burned?"
Claire nodded.
Her father had spent four days helping repair an older machine so the man could feed livestock.
"He never asked whether the neighbor's farm was important enough."
Claire swallowed.
Ruth touched her cheek.
"Don't let somebody else's disrespect convince you that you don't deserve help."
Claire stared into the dark.
Across the fields, combines continued moving.
For the first time, she considered calling the people who operated them.
Not to complain.
To ask what might be possible if they worked together.
The first farmer she called was Wes Halden.
He was seventy-one, with silver hair, a stiff left knee, and a wheat operation larger than Claire's.
He had known her father for thirty years.
When she explained the situation, he listened without interrupting.
Then he asked, "How long?"
"Six days."
He cursed softly.
Claire almost smiled.
Wes continued.
"Didn't they sell you the maintenance package with that combine?"
"Yes."
"And they still haven't sent anyone?"
"No."
He was silent for a moment.
Then asked, "You called anybody else?"
"Maya Ortiz."
"Good mechanic."