He gave us his card, wrote a second phone number on the back, and told me to bring the notebook. Then he started to leave. I called after him and asked why he had stopped to talk to me when so many other people in the barn knew more about tractors.
James considered the question before answering. "Because you told the truth about what you didn't know," he said. "That usually tells me more than somebody bragging about what he does."
He walked to his pickup. I watched him cross the lot, then looked at the card in my hand. Farm Bureau director, it said beneath his name. The words meant little to me then. What mattered was that he had asked a twelve-year-old to come back with his notebook instead of telling him to get out of the way.
Grandma read the card over my shoulder. "Monday," she said quietly.
"We could go right after school."
"We'll go," she answered, and then, because she was still Grandma no matter what happened, she added, "But first we need lunch, and you need to stop looking like you might faint."
We ate sandwiches in the car while calling everyone we knew who owned a trailer capable of carrying several tons of dead tractor. Mr. Atwood answered on the third try. When Grandma told him what we had bought, he went silent for so long I wondered whether the call had dropped. Then he gave a low whistle, said he would bring a proper equipment trailer and another adult to help with loading, and asked us not to let the auction crew improvise anything dangerous in the meantime.
Before sunset, Mr. Atwood confirmed that the auction staff could leave the tractor in a secured loading area until the next afternoon. Grandma and I drove home with the receipt tucked safely in her purse while he went to check his trailer and equipment. In the rearview mirror I could still see the John Deere beside the barn, enormous and awkward against the fading sky. We had spent our savings on something that could not move under its own power, and the work of bringing it home remained ahead of us. Yet for the first time since Grandpa's funeral, the view through that windshield included a possibility instead of only a problem.
The tractor arrived at our place on Sunday afternoon, one day before James expected us in his office. Mr. Atwood backed the trailer toward the machine shed, where the dirt had been packed hard by generations of wheels. Two other men helped secure the area and unload with a winch, taking their time while I watched from behind a marked line. When the tires finally touched our ground, the John Deere seemed to settle deeper into itself. It looked less like an auction purchase and more like a green hill someone had deposited between the barn and the woodpile.
Grandma stood beside me with her arms folded. "Your grandpa would have had three opinions about this," she said.
"What are they?"
"He'd tell you the tires need attention, the exhaust shouldn't have been left open, and we'd better find out how much trouble you've bought before we start celebrating."