“Used for oversized hybrid corn seed.”
Then another.
“Small round soybean plate.”
Then a narrow one with closely spaced holes.
“That one is for a planter series farmers still use because the machines were built like bridge iron.”
He ran his finger around the rim.
“But the company stopped supporting them.”
A farmer behind him said:
“My brother still runs two of those planters.”
The dealer nodded.
“And when a plate cracks?”
“He hunts salvage yards.”
“Exactly.”
The boy looked down.
There were hundreds.
The retired dealer continued.
“One common plate might be worth ten dollars.”
“One rare one might be worth fifty.”
“A matched set could be worth more.”
“Some may be worthless.”
“Some may be cracked.”
“Some may be duplicates nobody wants.”
The auctioneer laughed.
“So twelve hundred might be good.”
The dealer looked up.
“Maybe.”
Then toward the boy.
“But you don't decide before you count.”
The boy nodded slowly.
That sounded like something his father would say.
Count first.
Decide second.
The office worker waved the yellow note.
“What do I tell the dealer?”
Everyone looked at the thirteen-year-old.
He swallowed.
Then said:
“Tell him they're not for sale today.”
The auctioneer stared.
“Twelve hundred dollars.”
“I heard.”
The boy's voice shook.
But he repeated:
“Not today.”
The retired dealer smiled.
Not widely.
Just enough.
The auctioneer shook his head.
“You're either the smartest kid here or the dumbest.”
The thirteen-year-old looked toward the three rust-filled crates.
“People already thought I was the dumbest ten minutes ago.”
Several farmers laughed.
This time he laughed with them.
Then another phone began ringing.
Not the office phone.
A second line near the auction clerk’s desk.
The worker turned.
The retired dealer stood.
“Kid.”
“Yes?”
“Get those crates loaded before somebody decides curiosity gives them permission to start sorting your inventory for you.”
That was all the boy needed to hear.
He found his father.
Unfortunately, his father had already heard.
The forty-year-old farmer was standing near a faded red tractor when his son approached.
His face told the boy everything.
“What did you buy?”
The boy stopped.
Around them, people pretended not to listen.
“Parts.”
“How many parts?”
The boy hesitated.
“Around nine hundred.”
His father's eyes closed.
“Say that again.”
“Nine hundred.”
“What kind?”
“Seed plates.”
The father stared.
“You own a planter that uses them?”
“No.”
“Does anybody we know?”
“Maybe.”
“How much?”
The boy looked toward his boots.
His father understood.