Ford bought Charlotte a mini corn dog. She sat on the edge of a hay bale and ate it with both hands, ketchup on her chin, the stuffed animal wedged beside her. A woman passing by stopped to coo at Charlotte and ask Ford how the off-season was going. Ford kept one eye on Charlotte and gave the woman three minutes of small talk, introducing Leo without missing a beat. The woman shook his hand, told him he was too skinny, and that she’d bring a hotdish to his first home game.
“She will,” Ford said after the woman left. “She brings one every year. It’s always tuna.”
“Every year?”
“Every year. You learn to eat before you get there.”
They found a spot along the track where the dirt had been packed into a hard surface and the grandstand was already filling. The pulling track stretched out in front of them, a long lane of packed earth with distance markers and a weighted sled waiting at the near end. The first competitor was already staging, and it was not a tractor in any sense Leo understood. The thing had a modified chassis, an exposed engine the size of a washing machine, and a roll cage. It looked like someone had built a vehicle out of spite and horsepower.
“That’s a modified puller,” Ski said, pointing. “See the supercharger? That thing’s pushing at least three thousand horses. Some of the big boys run double that.”
“Three thousand.” Leo stared at the rig. “On dirt.”
“On dirt. They hook up to the sled, which has a weight box that transfers forward as they pull, so it gets heavier the farther they go. Full pull’s the whole track.”
Charlotte tugged on Leo’s sleeve. He looked down. She pointed at the rig. “That one’s not gonna make it.”
“No?”
“Nope.” She crossed her arms.
Leo glanced at Ford. Ford shrugged. “Don’t look at me. She’s got a better track record than I do.”
The first puller fired up, and the earplugs made sense. The sound hit Leo in the sternum—a deep, concussive roar that shook the air and sent a plume of black exhaust straight up. The rig lurched forward against the sled and the crowd noise swelled, people standing, kids on shoulders, the whole grandstand vibrating with it. Dirt sprayed from the rear tires in twin arcs. The sled’s weight box crept forward as the rig fought for distance, engine screaming before the front end lifted and the thing died at the one-eighty mark.
The crowd groaned. Charlotte shook her head.
“Told you she’s good,” Ford said.
They watched three more pulls. Leo asked questions because they kept him inside the conversation, and Ski answered every one before Leo finished asking, grabbing his arm and pointingat the track, talking over the engine noise. Novo, who hadn’t said more than two words all day, leaned forward when a puller stalled at the line. “Cam issue,” he said, and went back to watching. Leo glanced at Ski. Ski just shrugged.
Between pulls, a couple in the row ahead turned around. The woman recognized Ski first, then noticed Leo. “Are you new? I don’t recognize you.”
“Brand new. Just got in from Florida.”
“Florida!” She swatted her husband’s arm. “He’s from Florida, Gary.”
Gary looked Leo up and down. “You ready for a Wisconsin winter?”
“I own exactly one jacket,” Leo said. “So probably not.”
They shook their heads, laughing about what a rude awakening Leo was in for. When Leo admitted it was his first tractor pull, Gary explained the finer points of the modified class while the woman told him about her nephew who played hockey in Appleton. Maybe making small talk wasn’t as hard as it seemed. He’d never be the chatty type, but Leo was pleased with himself for not shutting them down.
Ford left first. Charlotte had gone quiet, leaning against his leg with her eyes half-shut. He scooped her up, and she dropped her head on his shoulder without protest, the stuffed animal dangling from one hand. “I’m going to get this one home before she crashes,” Ford said. “It was good hanging out, Vargas. We’ll have to do it again.”
“Yeah, for sure. Thanks for the intel.” Leo nodded at Charlotte. She blinked at him once, heavy and slow, already gone.
Novo drifted next. Saw someone he knew near the livestock barns and disappeared with a chin lift. Ski lasted another twenty minutes before a woman Leo assumed was his mother appeared from the crowd like she’d been summoned by a homing beacon. She grabbed Ski’s arm and started talking about someone named Carol whose daughter had just gotten engaged, and Ski gave Leo an apologetic grimace.
“Go,” Leo said. “I’m good.”
Gunnar and Wes had wandered off earlier to meet up with Wes’s sister and niece. Leo had watched Wes scoop the little girl onto his shoulders while Gunnar fell into step beside them, and the four of them had disappeared into the crowd. They’d said they’d find him later. He wouldn’t. They were enjoying family time and didn’t need the new guy tagging along.
He bought a lemonade from a stand run by the Port Haven High School band. The girl who served him had braces, asked if he was on the hockey team, and then called him sir, which made him feel ancient. He thanked her, tipped too much, and walked back toward the track with the cup sweating against his palm.
The grandstand was full now. Families packed into the bleachers, kids sitting on the rails, couples sharing seats. A group of older men in lawn chairs had set up along the fence with coolers, arguing about a puller’s gear ratio loud enough to carry halfway across the grounds. A woman braided her daughter’s hair while watching the track, fingers working without looking down. Two boys shared a funnel cake, powdered sugar on their shirts, shoving each other for the last piece.
Leo sipped his lemonade and stood at the edge of all of it.
