“You know they’re saying in town you’re building Frankensteins.”
Isaiah tightened the final battery hold-down.
“I heard.”
“Doesn’t bother you?”
“Depends whether Frankenstein runs.”
Leonard laughed hard enough to cough.
The nickname helped more than it hurt.
People came to see the machines out of curiosity. Some came expecting to prove the nineteen-year-old boy had gotten lucky once. They saw labeled parts, pressure gauges, organized donor rows, and a grease-stained ledger older than Isaiah sitting open on the bench.
They also saw him answer questions without pretending.
“How many hours on this engine?”
“Exact number unknown. Rental meter failed. Compression is within eight percent across cylinders, oil pressure is forty-six pounds hot at rated speed, and I changed rod bearings because wear was borderline.”
“How long will it last?”
“I can’t promise that. I can tell you what I tested.”
“Why’s this one cheaper?”
“Sheet metal is ugly and the rear tires have two seasons left, maybe three. Mechanically it tested the same as the other one.”
People trusted answers that cost the seller money.
By early winter, Isaiah had sold fourteen tractors.
The number looked impressive only from far away.
Up close, the margins were thin.
Transport had cost more than expected. Batteries ate money. Tires ate more. Some donor parts that looked usable failed inspection. Two tractors required machining work Isaiah could not do himself. One sale disappeared completely into replacement seals, hoses, and a steering cylinder that leaked after delivery.
The cash box was healthier than eleven dollars, but nowhere near rich.
Isaiah’s real shortage was time.
He was doing every job himself: diagnosis, disassembly, cleaning, rebuilding, testing, hauling, paperwork, phone calls, and customer repairs. On good days he finished two major assemblies. On bad days a single frozen bolt stole half the afternoon.
Denise began leaving dinner inside the shed.
A plate covered with another plate to keep dust off.
She never told him to stop working.
She did tell him when he was becoming stupid from exhaustion.
“You’ve measured that shaft three times.”
“Four.”
“And what did the first three measurements say?”
“The same thing.”
“Then either trust the tool or go to bed.”
Isaiah went to bed.
The first serious business opportunity arrived in November.
Patrice Odum called from Cypress Grounds Group, a commercial maintenance contractor that handled homeowners associations, school district properties, municipal parks, and corporate campuses across three counties. She had gotten Isaiah’s number from Curtis Boyd.
Patrice did not sound impressed by stories.
“I need machines that show up Monday and still work Friday,” she said. “My crews run eight-hour days. We tow aerators. We grade retention ponds. We move mulch. I am not buying hobby tractors.”
“Then don’t buy one because Curtis likes his.”
There was a pause.
“What should I buy it for?”
“Because I show you the test record and you run it before you pay.”
Another pause.
“Bring one Thursday.”
Cypress’s yard was larger than Isaiah expected.
Rows of trailers, commercial mowers, utility vehicles, spreaders, aerators, and crew trucks filled a fenced industrial lot. Patrice met him near the service bay wearing steel-toed boots and a navy work shirt with CYPRESS stitched over the pocket.
She was in her late thirties, direct-eyed, and already irritated by a delivery schedule before Isaiah arrived.
He unloaded the tractor himself.