“Oh.”
Della inhaled.
“Okay.”
“New rule.”
“If I say don’t move something.”
“Don’t.”
Wren nodded solemnly.
“Can I hold the pencil?”
“Yes.”
That partnership lasted six minutes before Wren dropped the pencil in mud.
Still, by evening, Della had a number.
About nine feet.
Maybe slightly more depending on where the water surface sat after rain.
Nine feet.
Approximately four psi before friction losses.
Not much.
Possibly enough.
There was another problem.
The draw was empty.
Rainwater catchment only matters if rain actually comes.
Della could not create water.
She could only decide what happened after it arrived.
That distinction became central to everything she built.
She was not going to irrigate twenty acres.
That would be impossible with the water available.
She wanted a test.
One quarter acre.
Maybe less.
Enough to prove whether slower, targeted irrigation could stretch the limited stored runoff farther than Harlan’s sprinkler system.
That was when she began collecting pipe.
She told nobody because she was afraid someone would explain why it could not work before she discovered that herself.
Her first Saturday produced fourteen usable feet of aluminum.
Second Saturday, twenty-seven.
Then old PVC.
Then valves.
Then hose.
Farmer after farmer said yes.
Most equipment had been discarded because commercial farms wanted uniform systems.
Same diameter.
Same fittings.
Same age.
Della did not need uniform.
She needed function.
Harlan began noticing.
One evening, he walked behind the barn and found what looked like the aftermath of an irrigation-system explosion.
“What is this?”
Della froze.
“Pipe.”
“I gathered that.”
“Why is it here?”
“I’m using it.”
“For?”
She hesitated.
Harlan crossed his arms.
“Della.”
“Water.”
“What about water?”
She finally told him.
Not everything.
Enough.
Upper catchment.
Gravity.
Drip tape.
Quarter-acre test.
Harlan listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he looked toward the hill.
“That draw dries.”
“I know.”
“You’ll only have water after rain.”
“I know.”
“Your pressure will be low.”
“I know.”
“Half that pipe leaks.”
“I know.”
He looked at her.
“You know a lot of problems.”
“I’m working on them.”
Harlan almost smiled.
“Your mother know?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because one parent should remain sane.”
He walked away.
Della watched.
“Am I allowed?”
Harlan stopped.
Turned.
“This our farm?”
“Yes.”
“You planning to flood the highway?”
“No.”
“Blow anything up?”
“No.”
“Spend my money?”
Della looked away.
“How much?”
“Maybe twenty-eight dollars.”
Harlan sighed.
“What for?”
“Drip tape.”
He took out his wallet.
Della immediately shook her head.
“I have egg money.”