The boy sat at the kitchen table after the call.
His mother looked toward him.
“What?”
He held up the order sheet.
She read the total.
Then sat.
His father came in from outside.
“What's wrong?”
The mother handed him the paper.
He read.
“Is this real?”
The boy nodded.
The father looked toward the retired dealer.
The dealer nodded.
“If the condition checks.”
The father sat too.
The boy’s sister entered.
Saw everybody sitting silently.
“Did somebody die?”
“No.”
Her brother slid the order toward her.
She read.
Then:
“You're not down anymore.”
They laughed.
That order changed the family’s attitude.
Not because seven hundred dollars made them wealthy.
It proved demand existed beyond auction excitement.
The father built wooden sorting racks along one barn wall.
The mother created a separate ledger for income and expenses.
She insisted.
“If you want to call it business, you're going to know whether it actually makes money.”
The boy groaned.
“Accounting.”
“Yes.”
“I hate accounting.”
“Then stay poor.”
The retired dealer nearly choked laughing.
The boy learned accounting.
Every check entered.
Every stamp.
Every cardboard box.
Every roll of packing tape.
Every gallon of fuel used for deliveries to the shipping depot.
He discovered something unpleasant.
Revenue was not profit.
Adults had been hiding that from him.
By November, gross sales reached $2,870.
Expenses consumed nearly $600.
He had recovered his original investment.
More importantly, he still owned most of the plates.
The two-thousand-dollar broker returned.
This time he came to the farm.
The father met him in the yard.
“What do you want?”
“Talk to your boy.”
“About?”
“Inventory.”
The boy stepped from the barn.
The broker smiled.
“Heard you're doing well.”
“Okay.”
“I'll give you five thousand for everything left.”
The boy's heart jumped.
Five thousand.
His father remained silent.
The retired dealer was not there.
No one to whisper.
The broker continued.
“Cash.”
“No more cleaning.”
“No more boxes.”
“No more phone calls during supper.”
The mother, standing in the doorway, muttered:
“That last part has value.”
The boy smiled.
Then looked toward the broker.
“How much do you think it's worth?”
The man shrugged.
“Whatever somebody pays.”
“Then why five thousand?”
“We've done this before.”
“Exactly.”
The boy had learned.
He took the inventory ledger from the workbench.
“We've sold less than a fifth.”
The broker’s expression changed slightly.
The boy continued.
“And the plates we've sold weren't the rarest ones.”