Summers in high school I worked on a farm. I moved sprinkler lines, bucked hay, dug ditch, and drove a swather. Hot dirty work. Sundays I got the afternoon off, but the other six days I worked fourteen-hour days. Farm work is never done; you’re always behind. Sometimes, in the evening, just as I was about to call it a day, I’d see the farmer’s son driving out along the ditch bank. He’d get out of his truck and walk over with a cold bottle of Coke. I always knew what that offering meant, but