"TIME!" Rusty’s voice barked over the industrial fans. "That's three minutes!"
Big Eli instantly unclasped his hands and stepped back.
Freed from the crushing weight, Trent collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, gasping for air. His skin was flushed, his tribal tattoo slick with sweat. He looked up at Eli, his eyes wide with a mixture of fury and utter bewilderment. He hadn't been knocked out, but he had been broken.
Big Eli didn't gloat. He didn't even look at Trent. He walked slowly back to the edge of the mat, his left leg limping slightly from the thigh kick. He sat heavily on a metal folding chair and picked up his thick wool socks.
Rusty walked over, holding a wad of cash. He looked down at the old farmer, a silent respect passing between them, and handed over ten crumpled fifty-dollar bills.
"You're a crazy old bastard, Eli," Rusty said softly.
"Alternators ain't cheap, Rusty," Eli rasped, tucking the money into the front pocket of his oil-stained overalls. He laced up his boots, stood up, and grabbed his half-finished club soda. He took one final sip, set the glass on the bar, and walked out the heavy wooden doors into the humid July night.
Saturday Morning
The sun wasn't quite over the horizon when the mechanical cough of the combine harvester broke the stillness of the farm.
Big Eli stood over the engine block, a wrench in his bruised, swollen hand. His left eye was ringed in purple, and his ribs ached with every breath, but the new alternator sat gleaming in the center of the dusty machinery.
He tightened the final bolt, connected the battery, and climbed into the cab. With a turn of the key, the massive diesel engine sputtered, caught, and settled into a deep, steady, beautiful roar.
Through the dust-streaked window of the cab, Eli saw the screen door of the farmhouse swing open. His ten-year-old grandson stood on the porch in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes, looking out at the roaring machine. The boy smiled, waving a small hand.
Big Eli rested his dark, grease-stained hands on the steering wheel. He felt the vibration of the engine in his chest. The ringing in his ears was still there, but as he put the combine into gear and drove toward the sea of golden winter wheat, it finally felt like peace.