The sky had been gray all morning — a cold, overcast ceiling that matched the weight in Cronauer’s chest. But just as Bill let out a wild, “YEEHAW!” and slammed the Beetle Bomb into the side of the wrecked tractor, the clouds cracked open. A golden shaft of sunlight poured through like a stage light cueing the madness.

The old orange truck hit the tractor like it was made of Styrofoam.

The screech of twisting metal echoed through the empty field as the tractor skidded sideways, tires locked, plowing a gouge through the dirt before finally coming to rest seventy feet away, just shy of a crooked fence line. Bill’s laughter erupted behind the wheel, high-pitched and feral — the kind of laugh that made you question whether the man was a genius or completely unhinged.

Cronauer doubled over, wheezing with laughter. “You pushed it… like it was a goddamn tricycle!”

Bill climbed out of the truck like he’d just taken a victory lap at Le Mans. “She’s a beast, my friend. Welded half a snowplow to the front end and reinforced the frame with retired guardrails from Highway 33. You could knock down a city bus with her and still have time to tailgate after.”

Dave, standing off to the side, just shook his head. “I’m pretty sure the Geneva Convention has something to say about what you just did.”

“Let ’em come find me,” Bill cackled.

Cronauer wiped his eyes and glanced toward the tower. With the tractor finally out of the way, they could see just how bad the damage was. The base of the tower was crumpled, and the lowest third of the structure had folded slightly inward from the impact. One of the guy wires was pulled so taut it vibrated with every gust of wind; the others hung slack like broken puppet strings.

“Okay,” Bill said, suddenly serious. “Time for phase two.”

He turned and jogged toward the barn, motioning for the others to follow. “We need the Inloader.”

Back inside the shadowy barn, Bill yanked off the tarp covering the machine — a matte black loader with enough rust to make a junkyard weep, but it still looked solid. Its frame was thick, reinforced with what looked like scrap rebar and welded road signs. The engine bay had been reworked and wired to a small solar-fed battery bank parked next to it.

Cronauer raised an eyebrow. “Does it run?”

Bill grinned. “Like a drunken rhino with something to prove.”

He flipped a switch, and the loader sputtered once… twice… then growled to life like it had been waiting for an excuse.

“Jesus,” Dave muttered. “That thing sounds like it eats children.”

“She does,” Bill said. “But only if they’re rude.”

They rolled the loader out of the barn and positioned it near the bent section of the tower. Bill scratched his head, evaluating the damage like a sculptor considering a chunk of broken marble.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Here’s the plan. We’re gonna brace the bend from three sides using the loader, the Beetle Bomb, and that stack of scrap steel I squirreled away for… reasons.”

Cronauer narrowed his eyes. “What kind of reasons?”

“None of your business reasons,” Bill said with a wink.

The scrap turned out to be a pile of I-beams, square tubing, and cut plate steel, all buried under a tarp behind the barn. They dragged it out, laid out the pieces, and got to work.

The plan — if you could call it that — was to use the loader to push the bend outward while anchoring the opposite side of the tower with the Beetle Bomb acting as a counterweight. Then Bill, ever the mad scientist, would weld a giant steel collar around the weakened base section to reinforce it.

“Only one problem,” Bill said, eyes gleaming. “I need juice to run the welder.”

Dave gestured to the solar array on the studio’s roof. “That inverter’s old-school. No way it’s gonna handle a welder without kicking off.”

Bill cracked his knuckles. “Which is why I wired a second line from the truck battery last fall. Figured I might want to fry some metal on the go.”

Cronauer shook his head. “You think of everything.”

“No,” Bill said. “I just assume the worst and try to have a tool for it.”

The welder sparked to life, sputtering with the fury of repurposed solar current and redneck engineering. Sparks danced in the midday sun as Bill laid bead after bead, his face barely covered by a cracked welding mask that looked like it had survived a bar fight.

“You’re not even wearing gloves,” Dave called out.

“Can’t feel your hands if you never had a soul,” Bill shouted back.

Piece by piece, the collar took shape. When it was finally in place — bolted, welded, and reinforced with crossed bracing — the tower stood straighter. Not perfect, but sturdy enough to support a signal again.

Cronauer walked the perimeter, checking tension on the guy wires.

“We’ll need new anchors,” he said. “The east wire’s holding, but the west side’s almost free.”

Bill pointed to a pile of old concrete blocks. “Already thought of that too.”

“Of course you did.”

By late afternoon, the tower stood proud again — dented, scarred, but upright.

Cronauer leaned against the loader, sweat dripping down his face, heart pounding with something close to hope.

They weren’t done.

But they were damn close.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the signal wasn’t just a dream.

It was almost ready to sing.