By midmorning the planter was working across the Creek Forty, the ground taking seed cleanly, the rows lying straight as pencil lines. Tom watched the monitor and the far fence, feeling the particular satisfaction of work that could not be done by conversation or planning. A field that had been empty at breakfast was becoming a promise about autumn. He had made several passes when the tractor reached a section where the soil looked a shade paler than the rest. He barely noticed the difference.
The front wheels dipped. It felt at first like crossing a shallow washout, except Tom had not seen one and knew he had not crossed it earlier. Then the tractor jolted so hard that a metal cup bounced from its holder and struck the floor. A sharp crack came from underneath. The steering turned suddenly heavy, and the front end settled at an angle no tractor should hold while moving.
Tom stopped immediately, lifted the planter, and climbed down. His first fear was for the seed boxes and the expensive new tool bar, but the planter stood straight behind him. The damage was at the front of the tractor, where the axle support had cracked along a stressed section of metal. Rust from older wear marked part of the break, but fresh, bright metal shone where the final separation had occurred. The sight was bad enough to make Tom remove his cap and press it against his chest for a moment.
He phoned Ray. The mechanic arrived with a jack, inspected the break, and said the old support had been weakened long before today. Tom accepted that explanation because he wanted to. A tractor with so many hours could fail without announcing its intentions first. Ray called a repair shop with the right lifting equipment and arranged for transport, and Tom approved the rush rate before asking what it would be. The alternative was letting a perfect planting day pass while he waited for a cheaper opening.
When the tow truck pulled away, deep tire impressions remained near the place where the axle had failed. Tom glanced at them, saw what looked like an ordinary muddy depression, and moved his attention back to the planter. He was thinking about lost hours and spare equipment, not the ground under his boots. Later he would remember that the soil had seemed almost to give way beneath the service truck's stabilizer, and that one of the drivers had complained about how soft it was. At the time, the remark meant nothing to him.
Gary Pruitt heard about the breakdown at the co-op before Tom had returned home. Gary farmed across the county road, had known Tom since school, and possessed the kind of practical generosity that usually arrived without ceremony. He drove over that afternoon and stood beside the idle planter while Tom explained the damage. "Take my tractor for a day or two," Gary said. "It's sitting under the shed while I finish a different field with the smaller rig. You're not going to lose a weather window because your axle decided it was tired."