All Sunday.
After chores Monday.
After school Tuesday.
Every evening.
His hands turned orange from rust.
He discovered 73 unique casting numbers.
Some had only one plate.
Others had forty.
Several were not in his grandfather's 1968 catalog.
He began using notebooks.
Page by plate family.
Diameter.
Hole count.
Crop.
Condition.
Quantity.
Color traces.
Cross-reference.
His mother showed him how to make columns neatly.
His father brought an old folding table into the machine shed.
No announcement.
Just left it there.
The boy noticed.
By Wednesday, his father had added a lamp.
By Thursday, he brought home a wire parts rack someone had thrown away behind a repair shop.
The boy noticed that too.
Neither mentioned it.
Friday evening, the gray-haired farmer arrived before the boy could deliver the M-7 plates.
He drove thirty miles.
That alone said something.
He entered the machine shed carrying a flashlight and calipers.
The boy showed him the six plates.
The farmer examined one.
Then another.
He measured.
Held it to the light.
Ran a fingernail along the seed cells.
“Not much wear.”
He looked toward the boy.
“Where were these stored?”
“In crates.”
“No.”
“Before the auction.”
“I don't know.”
The farmer studied the blue paint beneath the rust.
“These may not have seen much field use.”
He handed the boy fifty dollars.
Then stared toward the rows of cleaned plates.
“You cataloged all these?”
“Almost.”
The farmer picked up the notebook.
His eyebrows rose.
“What does C mean?”
“Corn.”
“SB?”
“Soybean.”
“SC?”
“Sweet corn.”
“Question mark?”
“I don't know.”
The farmer laughed.
“Good system.”
He turned pages.
Then stopped.
“Where did you get this number?”
He pointed.
42-PX.
“Third crate.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
The farmer's expression changed.
“You sure that's PX?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
The boy retrieved them.
The farmer cleaned one carefully.
He whistled.
“What?”
The boy asked.
The farmer looked toward his father.
Then back.
“These aren't Midland standard plates.”
“What are they?”
“Dealer conversion plates.”
“For what?”
“Precision seed.”
“Vegetable growers used them.”
“Maybe research plots.”
He turned it over.
“Could be nothing.”
“Could be something.”
The boy smiled.
“That seems to happen a lot with these.”
The farmer laughed.
Then he looked serious.
“Listen to me.”
The boy did.
“Do not sell the whole lot to the first machinery dealer who calls.”
“No one has called.”
“They will.”
“Why?”
The farmer held up the notebook.
“Because I'm going to tell two people you have this.”