It’s grown cold since the sun set and she shivers as she hurries to finish the job. She can’t be caught out here, not now. Things are moving faster than she wanted and any slipup could mean the end of her enterprise.
She’s sacrificed too much to fail now.
The tractor engine quits before she’s through and she curses its faithlessness. All attempts to restart it meet with the ruh-ruh-ruh of fruitless effort.
Fine. She’ll finish by hand. She’s running out of time, so it must be quick.
She lands hard on the ground, both feet taking the brunt of her leap from the tractor seat, a faint groan escaping as her bad knee buckles. She’ll deal with it later when she’s sipping champagne on a Costa Rican beach. Until then, she’ll just have to tolerate it.
She’s tolerated worse up to now. Time for her to win for once.
The spade is familiar in her hands, as it should be. She’s spent her early life wielding one. But this is the last time. She catches herself in a bark of a laugh, the hole she’d begun with the tractor almost deep enough. A few heave hos and this will all be over.
If only she paused to look up, paid attention. Noticed she isn’t alone. Instead, she shovels with enthusiasm born from impatience and confidence, while the dark figure climbs into the tractor seat. Turns over the engine now restored on purpose, with purpose.
She turns in shock, the bright headlights shining in her eyes. She shades her face, squinting, confused. “What are you doing here? I told you, I’m taking care of this.”
No reply. Except for the groan of the hydraulics. The rise of the bucket digger. The slow approach. She staggers back, falling into the compost heap, so startled by the turn of events she doesn’t even think to run.
Or ask why as the bucket’s controls release and it falls, fast and deadly.
She’s made one last sacrifice. And it’s a doozy.
***