Too wet.
Rain fell across Hawthorne County through the first half of April.
Fields turned black and sticky.
Tractors stayed parked.
Farmers checked forecasts three times a day.
The planting calendar tightened.
Corn needed to go in.
Then soybeans.
Every lost day increased pressure.
By April 24, the soil finally began drying.
The county exploded into motion.
Tractors ran before sunrise.
Planters rattled down roads.
Seed tenders moved.
Fuel trucks delivered diesel.
Everyone tried to plant two weeks of work in seven days.
That was when parts began breaking.
Old machines failed first.
Bearings.
Chains.
Openers.
Springs.
Plates.
The boy sold eleven plates in three days.
Then seventeen.
Then something unexpected happened.
A regional implement distributor announced that a shipment of aftermarket seed plates from Missouri had been delayed.
A factory line problem.
Then flooding along a rail route.
The exact reason changed depending on who repeated it.
The result did not.
Replacement plates were unavailable locally.
Farmers with older plate planters had three choices.
Wait.
Modify.
Find used plates.
The boy had 700.
The elderly farmer from the auction arrived just after dawn one Thursday.
His pickup skidded into the yard.
He walked directly toward the barn.
“You still have twenty-four-C?”
“How many?”
“Eight.”
The boy checked.
“Thirty-one.”
“Give me eight.”
His father came from the machine shed.
“Morning.”
The elderly farmer barely looked at him.
“Morning.”
Then to the boy:
“How much?”
The boy hesitated.
Five dollars each had been his winter price.
Demand had changed.
He could charge ten.
Fifteen.
Maybe twenty.
The elderly farmer needed them now.
The teacher’s question returned.
How expensive should it be?
“Six dollars each.”
The elderly farmer stared.
“That all?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They were five.”
“Now I had to clean more.”
The old man laughed.
“Fair.”
He paid forty-eight dollars.
Then added two more.
The boy pushed them back.
“What’s that?”
“Emergency fee.”
“No.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
The elderly farmer looked at the father.
“Stubborn.”
The father smiled.
“Genetic.”
The old farmer left.
An hour later, another pickup came.
Then another.
By noon, six farmers had visited.
The boy skipped lunch.
His mother brought sandwiches to the barn.
“What is happening?”
“Planting.”
She looked at the trucks.
“I can see that.”
A farmer called from outside:
“Anybody home?”
The boy ran out.
That afternoon, the phone rang seventeen times.
His mother started answering:
“Plate department.”
At first she was joking.
By Saturday it no longer sounded like a joke.