"Could it still be the sleeves?" I asked.
"Could be. Could also be more," he replied. "And if we're lucky, the reason it stuck won't have destroyed the pieces beneath it. We don't know yet."
I wanted him to give me a percentage. He refused. "A number wouldn't make the metal any different," he said. "We'll open what needs opening, measure what needs measuring, and write down the truth."
Over the next several work sessions, he and another qualified adult handled the major disassembly, lifting and securing heavy assemblies while I worked on permitted smaller components and documented the process. I cleaned fasteners, tagged hoses, photographed original positions, and learned why a label on a plastic bag could save an hour of confusion three weeks later. I used to imagine restoring a tractor meant turning wrenches until something dramatic happened. Instead, my first pile of work consisted of labeling, washing, measuring, and waiting for somebody to say we could move to the next step.
Then the cylinder head came off, and our possible problem became something we could finally examine. Two cylinders showed heavy corrosion, with damage around the sleeve areas consistent with long-standing moisture exposure. Others were in much better condition than I had dared hope. The condition of the crankshaft and bearings still needed inspection, and the block required professional assessment for cracks and dimensional problems, but we had found a plausible explanation for why the tractor would no longer turn.
I leaned over the workbench where Mr. Pittman had placed our photographs and inspection notes. His pencil circled two places on a printout, then drew a question mark beside each. "This is where we stop guessing about which cylinders were affected," he said. "Now we know what we see. We still don't know whether it's worth rebuilding."
He was careful not to let me confuse a promising discovery with a finished repair. The wet sleeves in a diesel engine were replaceable components, but replacement was not a magical cure for every kind of damage. Measurements mattered, cleanliness mattered, and professional testing mattered. We could not simply order a kit, put it in, and expect an engine stored for twenty years to forgive everything else that had gone wrong.
James came that afternoon and stood beside the engine for a long time while Mr. Pittman explained the findings. Grandma waited by the doorway, holding a mug of tea whose steam rose into the cold shed air. When James asked how the work compared with my original notes, Mr. Pittman said the boy had identified the likely area of trouble but had been smart enough to leave room for what he couldn't see. I had never been so relieved to hear somebody praise a question mark.