The tractor roared to life, spitting out a puff of exhaust as it hauled the heavy harrow across the Iowa field, leaving a trail of freshly turned soil. Jack maneuvered past a stretch of dense woods, reaching a clearing that jutted into the forest like a wedge. The patch was bare except for last season’s brittle grass, swaying faintly in the breeze. It was quiet out here, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional bird call—a perfect slice of rural peace.
But then, something wild caught Jack’s eye, something so bizarre it stopped him cold. Right there in the middle of the clearing, under the bright midday sun, was a pack of gray wolves. Not one or two, but a whole group, maybe a dozen, howling like their lives depended on it. Some tilted their heads back, their eerie wails echoing across the field, while others paced nervously, sniffing at a strange, dark object that looked like a beat-up wooden crate. It was as if they were trying to flag him down, demanding his attention.
- “What in the world?” Jack muttered, gripping the steering wheel tight.
The wolves noticed him and got even more frantic. A few trotted closer to the tractor, then darted back to the crate, scratching at it with their paws or nipping at it with their teeth, leaving faint scratch marks on its weathered boards. Jack had run into wolves before in these woods—usually just a quick glance before they vanished into the trees. Those encounters were always calm, no trouble. But this? This was something else entirely. Wolves didn’t act like this, especially not in broad daylight in Iowa, where they were rare.
He climbed down to the tractor’s step, one hand on the doorframe, watching the pack closely. These wolves weren’t acting aggressive; they seemed desperate, almost pleading. The howling softened as they saw him watching, and a few even backed off, like they’d done their job by getting him to notice. But a couple of stubborn ones kept clawing at the crate, growling low as they tugged at its edges.
Jack’s gut told him something was seriously off. He jumped down to the ground, boots sinking into the soft dirt, and stood by the tractor, waiting to see what the pack would do next. As if on cue, the wolves started to slip away. One by one, they melted into the forest, their gray coats blending with the shadows until the last flick of a tail disappeared behind a thicket. The clearing fell silent again, except for the faint creak of the cooling tractor engine.
Jack grabbed a crowbar from the cab, his heart pounding a little faster now. He approached the crate cautiously, glancing at the woods in case the wolves decided to circle back. Up close, he could see it was a crude wooden crate, slapped together with mismatched boards and rusty nails, like something thrown together in a hurry. Whatever was inside, those wolves wanted him to find it. And then he heard it—a sound that hit him like a punch to the chest. A baby’s cry, faint but unmistakable, coming from inside the crate.
Jack peered through a gap in the crate’s boards, his breath catching in his throat. There, nestled inside, was a tiny infant, no bigger than a bundle of blankets. The little one must have just stirred awake, letting out those heart-wrenching cries that echoed in the empty field. Without wasting a second, Jack jammed the crowbar into the seam and leaned into it with all his might. The wood splintered and gave way, nails popping out like they were eager to be free. He grabbed the loose board and ripped it off in one swift pull, tossing it aside into the grass.
What he saw next floored him—there weren’t one baby, but two, huddled together at the bottom of that shoddy crate. Twins, by the looks of it, maybe six months old at most, wrapped up in dirty old rags that barely passed for clothes. The early spring chill was biting, and if Jack hadn’t stopped, if those wolves hadn’t raised the alarm, these kids would have frozen solid out here in the middle of nowhere. His mind raced with horror at the thought—who could abandon helpless babies like this?
A wave of emotion crashed over him; his throat tightened, and hot tears blurred his vision. He blinked them back fiercely, scooping up the infants gently, one in each arm, cradling them against his chest. Their tiny bodies were cold to the touch, but they were alive, squirming and cooing now that they felt safe.
- «Who in God’s name would do something like this to you little ones?» Jack whispered, his voice cracking as he rocked them softly.
The babies just gazed up at him with wide, innocent eyes, one even flashing a gummy smile and reaching out a chubby hand to grab at his flannel shirt. It melted his heart right there. He hurried back to the tractor, placing them carefully on the passenger seat, wrapping them in his own jacket for extra warmth. Then, he unhooked the harrow—it could wait—and revved the engine, turning the John Deere toward the small town nearby. As he rumbled down the dirt road, he stole glances at the woods, murmuring under his breath,
- «Thank you, you wild grays. If it wasn’t for you making all that racket, these kiddos wouldn’t have stood a chance.»
He chuckled bitterly to himself, thinking about the unfinished field. «Guess I won’t get that plot harrowed today. The foreman’s gonna chew me out something fierce.» But as he watched the twins doze off, their little chests rising and falling peacefully, he shrugged it off. «Ah, who cares? Saving lives beats plowing dirt any day.»