Around nine, Floyd Meeker arrived with two men I recognized from the feed store. He wore a spotless quilted jacket despite the mud and walked as if every machine in the yard had been brought there for his inspection alone. He glanced at the green tractor, then noticed my notebook.
"Planning to restore that for the county fair?" he asked.
"Maybe," I answered.
His friends laughed. Floyd leaned close enough to read the paper tag. "Seized for twenty years. The auction house ought to charge someone to take it."
"Maybe that's why it'll be affordable," I said.
His smile slipped briefly. Then he slapped the rear tire and walked away, telling one of his friends that the place had started admitting children to the bidding. Grandma stepped closer to me but said nothing. I hadn't been disrespectful, and she knew I had only answered his question.
By the time the auction moved indoors, the early mist had burned off and damp coats filled the barn with the smell of wool, machinery oil, and cold earth. Grandma and I found a place near the center aisle. She held the invoice envelope in one hand and kept the other free in case I needed to pass her the paddle. The first six lots passed quickly: an old mower, a rusted feed wagon, a set of rims, two plows, and a tired pickup with a cracked windshield. The auctioneer made each sale sound more exciting than the one before it, and the crowd responded with grunts, jokes, and raised cards.
Then somebody called for lot seven. The large barn doors opened just wide enough for everyone to see the tractor waiting outside beneath a strip of pale daylight. Gary Sims checked his notes and announced the year, model, and condition exactly as printed on the listing. He reminded bidders that the sale was as-is, with no warranty and no promise that the engine could ever be repaired. A few heads shook before he finished.
Floyd called two hundred from the front row. He did it with a laugh, adding that he might turn the engine into a garden ornament if somebody hauled it to his place. Gary repeated the offer, looked over the crowd, and asked for a higher number. Grandma touched my elbow once. I turned to her, and she gave me a small nod.
I raised paddle thirty-eight. "Two fifty."
The room grew quiet enough that I heard the auctioneer's pencil drop against his clipboard. Gary looked from me to Grandma, recognized her bidder number, and accepted the offer. Floyd turned slowly, saw who had spoken, and grinned as though someone had presented him with an amusing new game.
"Boy, it hasn't run in twenty years," he said. "You know something all these grown men don't?"
I could feel Grandma beside me, her shoulder steady against mine. "I know enough to check before I call it dead," I answered. "My grandfather taught me about that engine."