Price.
Buyer.
Plate number.
His father insisted.
“If you’re doing business, do records.”
His mother insisted harder.
“Taxes.”
The boy groaned.
“Taxes?”
“Welcome to commerce.”
He suddenly understood why adults complained.
The money sat in a savings account.
The boy wanted to buy a used motorcycle.
His mother said no.
His father said:
“Maybe.”
His mother looked at him.
His father changed to:
“No.”
Then June brought another opportunity.
The county extension agent visited.
He was a tall man with wire-framed glasses, sunburned forearms, and a habit of asking questions while already knowing half the answer.
He walked through the barn.
Studied the inventory notebook.
“You did this?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“How are you identifying plates?”
“Manuals.”
“Cross-reference?”
“Some.”
“Do you know which plates interchange between manufacturers?”
“Not all.”
The agent smiled.
“Want to?”
He brought books.
Decades of compatibility charts.
Old extension bulletins.
Agricultural engineering publications.
The boy discovered many plates sold under one brand were actually manufactured to common hub dimensions.
Some could fit several planter models.
Others could fit after changing a carrier ring.
He began creating his own cross-reference.
Not casually.
Carefully.
He marked unverified possibilities in pencil.
Tested plates on Grandpa’s abandoned planter.
His father helped restore it.
They replaced chains.
Freed bearings.
Cleaned hoppers.
Mounted plates.
They ran corn kernels through while turning the drive wheel by hand.
The boy placed pans beneath seed tubes and counted.
Drop spacing.
Doubles.
Skips.
Then changed plates.
Test again.
This became his laboratory.
By late summer, his notebooks contained information the local implement dealer did not have in one place.
The dealer visited.
“You ever think about selling me the whole inventory?”
The boy looked toward him.
“How much?”
“Three thousand.”
His father nearly choked.
The boy remained still.
Three thousand dollars.
For plates that cost $180.
The dealer continued:
“I’ll handle customers.”
“You go back to being thirteen.”
The boy thought of school.
Chores.
Baseball he rarely played.
Three thousand sounded enormous.
His mother said nothing.
His father said:
“Your decision.”
The boy asked:
“What would you charge farmers?”
The dealer smiled.
“Market.”
“What does that mean?”
“More than you.”
“How much?”
“Depends.”
The boy understood.
The dealer was not cheating him.
Business required margin.
Rent.
Staff.
Inventory.
Risk.
But if the dealer owned the plates, prices would change.
The boy looked toward his notebook.
“No.”
“Four thousand.”