I hadn't considered that. I knew the amount we owed and the hours the job had taken, but I had thought of it mostly as the price of getting a useful part back. He explained that expertise was valuable partly because it protected people from pretending uncertain work had become certain. It was one more version of the lesson Grandpa had been trying to teach me all summer.
We prepared for the engine's first controlled turning and system checks only after Mr. Pittman was satisfied with the workshop setup and the necessary mechanical inspections. I was allowed to observe closely and keep the records while he handled the parts of the procedure that could be dangerous. The engine turned under the agreed testing conditions without the sudden resistance that had worried us at the start. I wrote the result in capital letters, then crossed out the exclamation point I'd added beside it because Mr. Pittman said a test deserved a date and a clear observation more than punctuation.
It was still not running. That distinction mattered every time somebody asked how the project was going. The next checks uncovered a coolant seep at a connection that had looked sound from the outside, then an electrical fault where an old wire's insulation had become brittle. Each problem required another pause, another entry in the journal, and sometimes another call to someone who knew more than I did. My enthusiasm returned every morning and collided with the machine's stubborn honesty every afternoon.
One day a package of replacement components arrived with a shipping label soaked from a storm. The box had been set beneath the porch overhang, but meltwater had reached one corner. Grandma opened it with me at the kitchen table and we found that the packaging around two items had been compromised. Mr. Pittman told us to have the supplier evaluate them rather than treating a possibly damaged part as fine because we were tired of waiting. I argued for nearly a minute, which was longer than he usually let me argue about a matter already settled.
"Noah," he said when I finally stopped, "what's your job here?"
"Restore the tractor."
"Try again."
I looked at the notebook. "Restore it properly."
He nodded. "And make sure the people who use it stay safe. Those two things belong in the same sentence."
We sent the questionable pieces back. I spent the afternoon wiping down the workbench with more force than necessary, angry at the weather, the supplier, and the twelve inches of soaked cardboard that had cost us another week. Mr. Pittman let me work until the rag was nearly black. Then he made a pot of coffee and offered me hot chocolate from the thermos he brought for that purpose, though he'd never admit he packed it for me.
"Do you miss your grandpa?" he asked without looking up from the cups.
I had been trying not to think about that. "Every day," I said.
"He sounds like a good mechanic."
"He was."
"Good at teaching, too, from what I can see."