We spread the first real budget on our kitchen table the next night. Parts would cost more than the four hundred dollars I'd casually imagined after reading old advertisements. A basic sleeve-and-piston kit was one expense; seals, gaskets, machine-shop inspection, fuel-system work, hoses, filters, and possible replacement components made the total considerably higher. Even with donated labor and loaned tools, Mr. Pittman's conservative estimate ran beyond what Grandma could afford. That was before the brakes, steering, and tires received the attention necessary to make the tractor safe in a field.
Grandma read the bottom line and put down her pencil. "That's more than we have," she said.
"I know."
"And what if the inspection finds something expensive inside?"
"We stop and decide whether to continue."
She looked at me across the table. "You say it like that won't break your heart."
I couldn't answer. I already pictured the 4020 pulling our mower through the upper field, with the engine sounding the way Grandpa described it. I already imagined Grandma coming out to the porch and seeing that the farm could still work. To stop now would mean losing not just a machine, but a future I had been building quietly in my head since July.
James had warned us that hope was not a grant application. Monday he helped me turn our notebook into one. We included the condition photographs, the initial survey, a realistic work plan, a timeline that allowed for school, and a cost estimate with clear limits. Grandma signed as the adult responsible. Mr. Pittman wrote that he would oversee all safety-critical inspection and repair. Mr. Atwood confirmed that transport and shop support were available if approved work continued.
We submitted the application to a local youth agricultural skills fund supported by the Farm Bureau chapter and several county businesses. James made it clear that I would be evaluated on planning, learning, and safe procedure, not on a promise that the tractor would start. It wasn't an instant rescue, and nobody in the office suggested the committee would meet faster because our situation was sad. We left with a date for the review and a list of documents still missing.
I spent the next week collecting those documents as if they were rare tractor parts. Mrs. Calder helped me turn handwritten measurements into neat tables. The clerk at the agricultural supply store printed prices for the supplies we might need. Mr. Pittman telephoned a machine shop and arranged a discounted inspection, explaining that it was a supervised youth project with a limited budget. Every adult I spoke with asked at least one practical question I hadn't thought to answer.
At first I found that embarrassing. I began to recognize it as the opposite of the laughter in the auction barn. The people asking questions were imagining the project becoming real, which meant they needed the weak places exposed before they caused trouble. It was easier to laugh at a broken tractor than to help a boy discover precisely why it was broken. I was learning which kind of attention mattered.