Rusty was staring at him, the stopwatch hanging limply from his fingers.
Clayton stood up and walked back to the bar. He picked up his club soda, which had gone slightly flat, and took a drink.
Rusty reached under the counter, pulled out a thick wad of twenty-dollar bills, and counted out five hundred dollars. He slid the stack across the sticky wood. He didn't say a word.
"Thanks, Rusty," Clayton rasped. He folded the bills and shoved them into the front pocket of his stiff Carhartts. He turned and walked out the heavy wooden doors, leaving the stunned silence of the bar behind him.
The night air felt cooler now. The humidity had finally broken, and a light breeze rustled the gravel of the parking lot. Clayton climbed into his Ford, the engine whining in protest before finally turning over with a belch of blue smoke.
The next morning, the sun rose over thirty acres of golden winter wheat, painting the fields in a rich, fiery amber. Clayton stood beside the open engine compartment of the combine. The new alternator gleamed, a bright spot of polished metal amidst the grease and rust.
He tightened the final bolt, hooked up the battery, and climbed up into the cab. He turned the key.
The massive engine coughed once, twice, and then roared to life, a steady, powerful rhythm that vibrated up through the floorboards. Clayton let out a long, slow breath. He shifted the machine into gear and eased it forward into the sea of gold.
It was going to be a long day, but the tractor was running, the bank would be paid, and for the first time in weeks, the quiet ringing in his ears didn't bother him at all.