Page 67 of East

If only I could soothe myself.

My heart thumps against my sternum.

Am I fucked or am I fucked?

I try to steady my breathing. The shoes are the only thing they have against me. I’m sure Wick’s place was also searched, along with the homes of anyone else who might be a suspect in Kin’s murder.

But I can’t calm myself. The walls are closing in around me. The weight of everything is crushing me.

It’s a feeling I know.

But one I never wanted to feel again.

I haven’t felt it since my stepfather was alive.

I’ve seen my father plow the land with our tractor a million times.

But now, as I sit here with a slew of controls—levers, pedals, switches—in front of me that might as well be written in Portuguese, I have no idea where to start. The tractor is bigger than I remember from the ground. The seat is too wide, the steering wheel too stiff beneath my hands.

I close my eyes and try to remember what Dad used to do.

He always checked something first. Fuel? No, Emmy took care of that yesterday.

The choke. That’s it. He’d pull it out slightly before starting.

I recreate the motion as I remember him doing it, my fingers tripping over it a little before I can get a good grip, and then turn the key.

The engine coughs twice before roaring to life, vibrating under me. It’s shakier than I thought it would be, but I hold on.

Next step? Next step, next step, next step…

The clutch. Dad would press the clutch all the way down. I shove my foot forward. It barely reaches. My legs aren’t nearly as long as his were. I slide forward in the seat, stretching, until the resistance gives.

Gear shift. First gear. Like a car, I guess.

The tractor lurches violently as I release the clutch too fast, jolting me forward. I grab the wheel, heart pounding, but it didn’t stall. It crawls ahead, uneven but moving.

Holy cow, I’m doing it!

I look behind me. The first row I make is crooked. The plow was dragging unevenly at first, skipping before biting into the soil. How do I even it out?

Right. Another lever. Depth.

I reach for it, adjust it. The blade settles, slicing into the earth in a steady line. Dark soil turns over behind me in a slightly evener ribbon.

Okay. Okay. Maybe I can do this.

I slowly find a rhythm. I straighten my steering. Listen to the engine. Feel when the tractor strains and ease off just enough.

The field is changing, and I’m the one doing it!

This is pretty easy, come to⁠—

A sound—different from the engine. A sharp, metallic clatter from underneath. The tractor jolts, harder than it did when I was starting it up.

I tighten my hands on the wheel, try to ease the clutch, to slow down…

But my foot slips.