The Tractor That Drives Itself

When the new tractor arrives on the farm, Isadora's grandfather walks around it twice and says nothing. It is bright green and has no steering wheel that he trusts. It follows a map that Isadora has drawn on a tablet. It drives itself in perfectly straight lines.

"A machine that thinks it knows my land better than I do," he says finally. "No, thank you."

"It doesn't think anything, Grandpa," Isadora says. "It only follows the map. It will save us weeks in the fields."

"And when it hits a rock, who will pay?" He walks back to his old red tractor, which has served the family for forty years. He climbs into the seat. The subject is closed.

For two weeks, the new tractor sits in the barn while Isadora does the work the slow way. Then, on a Thursday morning, the radio brings bad news. A big storm will arrive by tomorrow evening, and a third of the wheat is still standing.

Her grandfather listens with his arms crossed. Then he looks at the sky, which has already turned a heavy gray. "We have no choice," he says. "If we don't finish today, we will lose it."

"Then we use both tractors," Isadora says. "You take the east fields. I'll send the new one out west and watch it from the hill."

He nods once, as if it hurts. They work from dawn until the first wind begins to bend the wheat. Isadora checks her tablet every few minutes. The green tractor never tires, never stops for lunch, and never drifts from its line. At six, the last field is cut, and the first raindrops hit the barn roof.

Her grandfather climbs down from the old tractor, his face covered in dust. He looks across the field at the green machine, still moving slowly toward the gate. "It's good," he admits. "Very good. Don't tell your father I said so."

"Does that mean you'll use it next year?"

"Maybe on the west fields, when I'm tired." He pats the old red tractor on its wheel. "But I sit in my own seat for the east."