I often fantasize how I would react in a life-or-death situation. Imagining how I would selflessly intervene. However when confronted with a real situation, I chose to save myself instead of my uncle.

*******

During the corn harvest, my uncle Arlen drives the combine harvester while my cousin Cole and I drive the gravity wagons full of corn from the field to the silos. The tractors we use to pull the wagons are monstrous, requiring two metal steps to get up into the seat, but the combine is cyclopean. When the header is attached it’s as wide as a double lane road and it’s so tall that you need a built-in ladder to enter the cab. We’ve been hauling corn in tandem wagon teams all day, Arlen has been pushing us all day because he expects a storm.

Soon evening comes and brings with it the storm. The rain fell hard and heavy, quickly ponding.

Each time Arlen fills our wagons we ask if this is the last load. “One more.” came his inevitable reply.

One more wagon became two more… then three, the storm growing stronger and darker with each load. Dusk passes to night unnoticed. Arlen finishes unloading corn into the first wagon of my pair, then returns to darkness to harvest more.

The storm overwhelms the tractor’s lights leaving the world brown and black. The rain fills the furrows between the cornrows. new ruts left by the tractor quickly flood like tiny water features. Lightning flashes, The occasional flickers of light not strong enough to bring color to the monochrome of dirt and cornstalks.

Cole and I shelter in the cab of my tractor. It's barely big enough. Normally we wouldn’t be so cramped, each in our own cab, but we abandoned his tractor at the silos after the last run. Our tactical rebellion against Arlen. We hoped he would be less likely to continue harvesting if he didn’t see another empty pair of wagons waiting to be filled.

A bright spot swells out of the darkness. The noise of the harvester growing and competing with the gusting wind. The combine emerges from the darkness and stops parallel to my wagons. Arlen works the hydraulic levers sequentially. First disengaging the header, then the auger-arm swings out over the empty wagon, and the screw begins to turn discharging corn. He motions for me to come. I step out of the warm dry cab and jump down with a splash before slogging through the mud to him.

He stops me at the bottom rung of the combine’s ladder, just close enough to hear him shout. “Last one.” over the noise. The throttle was set near the red-line, a 12 liter engine pushing 4 tons of corn up the auger shaft and into my wagon. Squalling wind, roaring engine, and flowing corn each a different orchestra section of the cacophony surrounding me, flooding my ears at all octaves, drowning out everything but the loudest shouts. “Ground’s too wet. Digging ruts.” I signaled my understanding and hopped back down into the mud, returning to Cole and the warm cab.

The auger shifted pitch as it ran empty. Arlen shut off the PTO and idled the combine for a few seconds before shutting down. The sudden absence of light left a void where the combine once stood. Only the filaments glowed orange. From the darkness Arlen trudged, seeming oblivious to the rain. Three of us now, all equally wet, occupying a space designed to hold two. No one volunteered to walk the mile home.

Arlen pulled rank and evicted me from the driver's seat. He shifted low and set the throttle high. We started crawling towards the paved road, dragging 8 tons of wet corn behind us. The tractor begins to slide. Arlen throws a disapproving glance at me as he locks the differential.

"Sorry." I say to no one in particular, though neither respond. He focuses on driving an indirect path, weaving around low spots. Halfway to the road, the tractor lurches to a stop. Something metal PINGs hard enough to be heard and felt.

“That sounded like a hitch-pin shearing.”

“Nope.” Arlen sighs.

He motions us out into the rain to investigate. The problem is obvious. The front wagon’s two wheels are splayed out, each pointing in a different direction like a seated toddler. The guide bar had snapped leaving the wheels toed-out. No amount of pulling was going to get this wagon full of wet corn out of the mud.