Harlan put the wallet away.
“Then build it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Della smiled.
Harlan pointed at her.
“But if you cut any working pipe.”
“I bury you in the field.”
“Understood.”
The first system looked terrible.
Della placed the largest aluminum sections at the top.
Reduced into PVC.
Then black poly.
Then four drip lines.
A screen from an old sprayer became a crude first-stage filter.
She dug a small settling pit near the draw and lined it with an old livestock trough liner June had been saving.
Rainwater could collect.
Sediment would settle before entering the pipe.
In theory.
The first test happened after a thunderstorm in late June.
Della ran outside before breakfast.
The draw held water.
Not much.
Several inches across the lower basin.
She opened the first valve.
Nothing.
She waited.
A bubble moved through clear tubing.
Then water reached the pipe.
The first joint leaked.
Then another.
Then three simultaneously.
Within a minute, half the water reaching her manifold was spilling into the grass.
Della closed the valve.
Sat down.
Wren stared.
“It broke.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I know.”
Cass came from the barn.
Cass was fourteen.
He looked at the wet pipe.
Then at Della.
“Great irrigation system.”
“Shut up.”
“It watered one weed really well.”
“Cass.”
Harlan called from the barn.
“Leave her alone.”
Cass raised both hands.
Della spent that afternoon disassembling fittings.
Some threads mismatched.
Some couplers warped.
Some pipe had tiny cracks invisible when dry.
She marked failures with chalk.
Harlan watched for a while.
Then disappeared.
He returned carrying a pipe wrench.
No speech.
He sat beside her.
“Show me the worst one.”
Della handed it over.
They worked until dark.
Harlan never asked whether she still thought the idea was good.
That mattered more than encouragement.
Second attempt.
Leaks reduced.
Water reached the first drip tape.
Barely.
Only the first few emitters produced.
The rest remained dry.
Della crawled along the line.
Frustrated.
She opened the valve farther.
No meaningful improvement.
Harlan tested pressure with an old gauge.
“Little over two psi here.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Friction.”
“Elevation.”
“Those fittings.”
“Maybe your filter too.”
Della wanted to cry.
She did not.
She went to Opal.
Opal did not comfort her.
She handed her another pamphlet.
“Page nineteen.”
Della read.
Pipe diameter and friction loss.
Longer runs and smaller diameters reduce available pressure.
Every unnecessary narrowing mattered more when pressure was already low.
Della had built her main line too small.
The water did not need more force.
It needed less resistance.
That sentence changed the design.
She returned to Wendell Coe.
He was working inside his barn.
“Back already?”
“I need bigger pipe.”
Wendell laughed.