He looked at the John Deere.
Then at me.
Then at the whole situation.
He just shook his head.
“Let’s get it out first. Talk later.”
Hooking up the winch took fifteen minutes.
Getting the angle right took another ten.
Then Everett started pulling.
The winch motor wound.
The chain went taut.
The tractor shifted and groaned.
It didn’t move.
“More power.”
The truck’s engine revved higher.
The tractor lurched upward.
Six inches.
A foot.
Two feet.
Metal squealed.
Something underneath tore loose and clattered down the ditch.
“Keep going.”
Another foot.
Another.
The tractor crested the edge of the embankment, tilted back toward level, and finally sat flat on solid ground again.
We’d gotten it out.
But the damage was obvious even from a distance.
Oil still leaked from the disconnected line, leaving a trail across the field. The exhaust pipe hung at an angle, the weld I’d been so proud of split apart.
Mud and scratches covered the faded green paint.
Iris looked at her watch again.
“Two hours, ten minutes.”
We worked like surgical teams in an emergency room.
Mrs. Finch and I tackled the exhaust pipe, rewelding the break, while Everett and Iris traced the oil leak to its source.
A mounting bracket had come loose.
Nothing catastrophic.
But it needed immediate attention.
The welding went faster this time.
My hands knew what to do even if my mind was screaming about time running out.
The weld held.
Not beautiful.
But functional.
Everett tightened the oil line and topped off the reservoir with fresh oil from Grandpa’s supply in the barn.
Iris found touch-up paint and covered the worst of the scratches, though nothing could hide them completely if someone looked closely.
4:15.
We were out of time.
“Start it,” Mrs. Finch said. “Let’s see if it runs.”
I turned the key.
The engine fired up.
But that sound I’d been so proud of that morning was different now.
A small tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Something wasn’t quite right.