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.