“How do you know?”
The boy pointed toward the catalog shelf.
“Because I counted.”
The father looked away so the broker would not see him smiling.
The broker shook his head.
“You want to spend the next three years mailing rusty circles?”
The boy answered:
“Maybe.”
The broker laughed.
“Six thousand.”
The boy swallowed.
His mother looked toward him.
Six thousand was serious.
Their farm had problems.
Everyone knew.
A hydraulic repair bill sat unpaid on the desk.
The grain price had not been kind.
The boy had overheard his parents discussing whether they could afford to replace fencing on the north pasture.
Six thousand could matter to the whole family.
The broker knew that.
He looked toward the father.
“You know what six thousand cash does.”
The father’s face hardened.
“Talk to the owner.”
The boy felt proud.
And terrified.
The broker looked back.
“Six.”
The boy said:
“No.”
“Seven.”
His mother inhaled quietly.
The broker continued.
“Final.”
Seven thousand dollars.
The boy looked at the crates.
Then his ledger.
Then the man's face.
He wanted to say yes.
More than at the auction.
Because now he understood what money could do.
But another thought stopped him.
“If they're worth seven thousand to you…”
He paused.
“…they're worth more than seven thousand to the people calling me.”
The broker smiled.
“That's business.”
The boy answered:
“Then I guess I have a business.”
The man stared at him.
Then laughed.
Not cruelly.
Almost respectfully.
“Kid, you're going to be trouble.”
He left.
After the truck disappeared, the boy sat on an overturned bucket.
His hands shook.
His father stood beside him.
“Seven thousand.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
His father smiled.
“Good answer.”
The boy looked up.
“You would've sold?”
The father thought.
“At thirteen?”
“Yes.”
“For seven?”
“Yes.”
The boy groaned.
His father laughed.
“At forty?”
The father looked toward the inventory.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because now I know what work you've already done.”
The boy’s expression changed.
His father continued.
“Money isn't only what you paid.”
“It’s what you learned.”
“What you organized.”
“Who knows to call.”
“If he buys it, he's buying all that too.”
The boy looked toward the racks.
He had never thought of knowledge as inventory.
That changed him.
December arrived.
Snow covered the farm.
The barn became too cold for long evening work.
His father installed a small wood stove in one corner.
His mother complained it would burn the place down.