Hank Miller finally appeared on a hot morning in June. He drove an old red truck and brought a wooden tool chest in the passenger seat, which he carried into the shop with the care of a man moving something fragile. He was in his early sixties, broad through the shoulders but moving stiffly, with a face that looked as if it had once been eager and had slowly learned to expect bad news. He set the chest on the counter and looked at the pegboard.
"I suppose Earl sent you after me," he said.
"Earl mentioned that number four had been missing for a while," Rachel answered. "That's all."
Hank opened the chest. Inside were seed plates wrapped in old feed sacks, a heavy tongue pin, several bolts, and a length of chain. He set a brass key on the counter beside them. The number four was worn nearly smooth from being carried against other keys.
"There you go," he said. "All of it."
Rachel picked up the key. "What happened?"
Hank looked toward the front window. Outside, a truck drove past with a load of hay, and he waited until it had gone before answering. He had borrowed the parts to make an old drill on his property work long enough to plant a rented field. The machine failed anyway, then he injured his shoulder and lost the rental arrangement before he could finish the job. He'd put the parts away, told himself he'd return them the following week, and then felt too embarrassed to walk into Walter's store with a story that sounded like an excuse.
"Every month it got harder," he said. "Then Walter closed, and I figured the whole thing was over. But people keep asking about four like it's some big mystery. It's a handful of parts in a box I should've returned."
Rachel looked at him. There was no malice in his voice, only the weary discomfort of a man who had let a small obligation become a larger one through delay. She knew that feeling. During the last year of her marriage, she had postponed conversations for much the same reason, hoping problems might become simpler if she gave them time.
"The drill's not ready to use," she said. "Even with these parts."
"I know."
"I'm not going to pretend it is just because the key's back. But I appreciate you bringing it."
Hank nodded once. The words seemed to relieve him more than she expected. He asked whether the old pool was really starting again, and she explained that they were considering only a few machines. She told him they were putting repairs and ownership into writing, and that nobody would be expected to remember old obligations perfectly after fourteen months of a closed store and years of poor records.
"Martha would've liked that," Hank said. "She would've liked it better if I had brought four home when I was supposed to."
"Probably," Rachel admitted.
Hank gave a small laugh. He left the seed plates and pin on the counter, signed a note confirming what he'd returned, and asked Rachel to let Earl know that the parts were back. She watched him drive away, then carried the box to the shed and fitted the missing pieces to their places without trying to make the machine operational. The seed drill remained marked red. Its key went into a labeled envelope rather than onto an available hook.