Leaving my family's farm was the hardest thing I ever did-and coming back, grief-stricken, to pack it up just reminds me of every reason I wish I could stay. But my body won't let me work the fields anymore, and I can't afford enough help to keep things running. At least, that's what I think¿until someone starts plowing the fields in the middle of the night. At first, I assume it's a kind neighbor, or a well-meaning cousin, or maybe a very confused farmhand with an unusual sleep schedule. But when I finally catch the culprit, I discover it's not anyone at all. It's¿my plow. My full-size, century-old, absolutely-not-supposed-to-be-sentient plow. And once it's done tilling the fields, it seems extremely interested in plowing me, too.

Which shouldn't make sense. It shouldn't be happening. But here I am, on my family land, falling for a piece of heavy machinery that somehow understands me better than any human person ever has. So now I'm dealing with grief, new beginnings, and a plow with an excellent work ethic. And honestly? There are worse ways to be pulled back home.