Then I opened the green notebook to the page for the panel fault.
It was right there. In Dad’s block printing. Dated 2017.
Safety switch tower 5. Clean and reset.
We aired up the flat tire with the compressor in Dad’s pickup. I cleaned the switch with a wire brush.
Phil threw the lever.
That pivot groaned. It shuddered.
And it started to walk.
Phil stood in the end rows and watched water come down on that poor crooked corn like it was the first rain he’d ever seen in his life.
Then we went back to the yard. We let the tailgate down on Dad’s pickup and sat on it.
That’s where every piece of business on that place had been settled since before either one of us was born.
“I don’t want to sell it,” Phil said. “I thought I did. But I’ve been out here every weekend since March. And I don’t.”
