Raynor muttered a series of expletives before spitting a wad of pink saliva onto the hot, dusty ground. Several of Jim’s buddies jogged over to congratulate him, and after a round of cheerful high-fives and slaps on the back, a smiling Raynor and his friends turned to watch the scene unfold.

One of the farmers climbed up into Harnack’s truck and revved the engine, sending black smoke belching out of twin stacks, and drove the tanker onto the shoulder of the road. Then, with a burly man at each elbow, Harnack was escorted over to his rig and told to wait for the end of the line to arrive or head on home. He chose the second option.

As Harnack struggled up the drop step and into his truck, Raynor’s friends howled with derisive laughter and shouted a few choice obscenities at him. The truck’s air horn blared as the teenager hit the gas, up-shifted, and roared along the shoulder. Then, having spotted a gap, he cut between two trucks and swerved into oncoming traffic to yet another sounding of horns. Harnack steered into the right lane and headed north toward Bronsonville, waving a one-fingered salute out the window.

The line suddenly jerked ahead and everyone scrambled to get back to their trucks. Back in the cab, and having closed the gap in front of him, Raynor eyed himself in the mirror. That was when he realized that Harnack had scored a clean hit on his left eye, which was already turning blue and would soon be swollen shut. He swore. There wouldn’t be any way to hide that from his mother, who was going to be less than pleased.

Raynor pulled into the station twenty minutes later, and was greeted with nods and smiles from his fellow truckers. It seemed as though he’d earned a fair amount of respect by standing up to the Harnack kid, and that felt pretty good.

He filled the tanker halfway, which was all his family could afford. As he started up the truck again, he hoped the fuel would be sufficient to get most, if not all of the crop in. That, at least, was better than nothing.