The tractor had nearly nine thousand operating hours, and its paint was faded, but Adam had always respected that model for its reliability.

The retired farmer selling the equipment gave me spare planting plates after learning about my circumstances.

I bought twenty-five bags of seed corn from the local cooperative, intending to plant approximately twenty-four thousand seeds per acre on the dryland.

By then, almost all my remaining savings had been allocated.

There was another problem I couldn’t solve.

The March fifteenth crop-insurance deadline had passed before I became the property owner, and I had no coverage arranged for that planting season.

If hail destroyed the crop or another drought arrived, I could lose almost everything I’d invested.

I understood that risk better than anyone.

Still, I proceeded.

At the cooperative, I overheard a customer mention that Grant’s twenty-four-year-old son, Mason, had recently graduated with an agronomy degree from Iowa State University.

Mason would be returning home to join the family operation.

The customer casually mentioned that Mason was supposed to move into Adam’s farmhouse once Sophie and I left.

Suddenly, the hurried buyout made more sense.

The bank wanted a simplified balance sheet, while Grant wanted his son to have a comfortable home.

Neither motivation was inherently cruel.

But the men had convinced themselves that their preferred arrangement was also what I wanted.

That evening, I placed the new house keys in Sophie’s hand.

“We bought the Patterson farm across the road, sweetheart, and we’re going to plant our own eighty acres this spring.”

Her eyes widened.

“Are we really going to live that close to Dad’s fields, even after we move out of this house?”

I nodded.

“You’ll still see the tractors from your bedroom window, and we’ll build something here that belongs to both of us.”

She leaned against my shoulder and remained there for a long time.

During the final weekend of April, Claire and her husband helped us move.

Two men from church brought a flatbed truck, and we carried nearly twenty years of belongings across the gravel road.

Grant’s wife, Ellen, arrived while we were loading the last boxes.

She’d been my sister-in-law for twenty-one years, and we’d spent countless summers preserving tomatoes together.

“I told Grant that the funeral luncheon wasn’t the right time to discuss the buyout, Nora, although he wouldn’t listen.”

She glanced around the nearly empty kitchen.

Then she pointed toward the back door.

“Adam’s green cap is still hanging on that hook, and I don’t think either of you should leave it behind.”

Sophie reached up before I could move.

The cap slipped over her forehead and almost covered her eyes.

She pushed the brim upward with one finger.

I turned away because I couldn’t bear to watch her wearing something that still seemed to belong to her father.

On the first Wednesday in May, planting conditions finally became favorable.

I had been awake since four, checking fuel, lubricating the planter, and preparing seed boxes.

At seven, I drove my tractor into the western field.

Across the road, Grant’s larger equipment was already working Adam’s former acres.

Nobody waved.

The first day was harder than I expected.

My tractor pulled slightly left, and the sixth planter row kept dropping doubles until I discovered a bent latch.

Every refill required carrying fifty-pound bags by hand because I couldn’t afford an automatic seed tender.

Sophie rode safely beside me in the cab, wearing Adam’s oversized cap and holding a thermos of lemonade.

“Dad always said the corn wouldn’t grow if I let his hat fall off during a turn,” she recalled.

I smiled despite my exhaustion.

“Your father liked inventing ridiculous rules, especially when he wanted you to keep that cap on your head.”

By sunset, I’d planted only twenty acres.

Adam could have completed three times that amount.

My shoulders ached so badly that Sophie helped make dinner and gently rubbed ointment into my muscles afterward.

I cried quietly while she worked, remembering how naturally Adam had always helped me after difficult harvest days.

But before going to bed, I returned outside and prepared the planter for another morning.

Across the road, the lights of my former kitchen remained visible through the darkness.

I wondered whether somebody standing inside was watching.

PART 4 — THE FIRST PERSON WHO CROSSED THE ROAD

Mason arrived shortly after sunrise the next morning.

He walked across the gravel road with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, while Grant stood beside his pickup on the opposite field.

Mason examined my planter, then the seed bags stacked on the trailer.

“Aunt Nora, your sixth row was skipping yesterday, although it looks like you already found the problem.”

I nodded.

He hesitated before speaking again.

“I can drive the planter while you handle the seed refills, and we should finish considerably faster together.”

I reminded him that his father needed help.

“Uncle Paul is running the main planter this morning, so Dad can manage without me for a while.”

Then his expression changed.

“I didn’t know they planned to give you that check at the funeral luncheon, and I would have objected if anyone had told me.”

He looked toward the farmhouse across the road.

“Dad offered me Uncle Adam’s house, and I accepted without thinking about what moving out would mean for you and Sophie.”

I believed him.

Adam had taught Mason to operate a planter when he was eleven, and the young man had loved his uncle deeply.

“Your uncle would be proud of the agronomist you’ve become, Mason, and I know you never wanted to hurt us.”

Mason climbed into the tractor.

Sophie was already waiting in the passenger seat.

He recognized Adam’s cap immediately.

“That hat looks better on you than it ever looked on Uncle Adam, although he’d probably argue with me about that.”

Sophie laughed.

By noon, Mason and I had made remarkable progress.

Then Paul’s pickup approached, towing the partnership’s automatic seed tender.

He positioned it beside my planter and filled every seed box without announcing his intentions.

When he finished, he left the equipment at the edge of my field.

I followed him toward his truck.

“Paul, I appreciate the help, but you don’t have to leave your equipment here.”