“Whitlock.”
“Fair.”
“Nathaniel Kerr.”
“Clay family.”
“Walkers.”
“Noah’s discovery.”
Noah frowned.
“Don't put discovery.”
Miriam smiled.
“Why?”
“I wiped dirt.”
“That is literally discovery.”
“Sounds stupid.”
“You’re fourteen.”
“You’ll survive.”
The museum offer was still less.
Then Miriam added:
“There is another possibility.”
“What?”
“Our foundation has a youth trades initiative.”
“If you sell to museum, we could potentially establish a blacksmithing apprenticeship grant.”
Silas looked up.
“For Noah?”
“No.”
Miriam shook her head.
“Not only Noah.”
“Countywide.”
“Annual.”
“Students under eighteen.”
“Training.”
“Safety equipment.”
“Shop time.”
“Materials.”
Silas became very still.
Noah’s chest tightened.
Ellen asked:
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand endowment match if local donors participate.”
“That’s separate from purchase?”
“Yes.”
Noah looked toward Silas.
The old man was staring at the anvil.
Ellen noticed.
“Silas?”
He cleared his throat.
“Nate Kerr taught anyone who showed up.”
“Didn't charge if you were young.”
“Fed you lunch.”
“Called you stupid when you burned steel.”
Noah smiled.
Silas continued:
“Most kids can't afford decent tools now.”
He looked toward Noah.
“That would mean something.”
The Texas collector raised his offer to one hundred twenty thousand.
One hundred twenty.
Noah barely slept.
The difference between museum package and private collector could be more than thirty thousand dollars.
Real money.
Farm money.
He hated that choosing history had become expensive.
The next morning he found Silas at his forge.
The old man was heating square stock.
Noah waited until hammering stopped.
“Can I ask something?”
“You usually do.”
“Would you sell?”
Silas placed hot steel back in fire.
“Not mine.”
“If it was.”
“Different life.”
“Pretend.”
Silas sighed.
“You want permission.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Noah, people ask old men questions because they hope age turns opinion into prophecy.”
“It doesn't.”
“I can tell you what I would do.”
“You cannot use it as shield.”
“Okay.”
Silas looked toward fire.
“I would sell to museum.”
“Even losing thirty or forty thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m seventy-eight.”
“Money has less future in my hands.”
“You are fourteen.”
“So maybe I should take money.”
“Maybe.”
Noah frowned.
Silas continued:
“But ask yourself what you actually bought.”
“An anvil.”
“No.”
“You bought a choice.”
“That sounds dumb.”
“Most old-man wisdom does.”
He pulled steel.
Hammered twice.
Then:
“If you sell to collector, you are not betraying history.”
“If you sell to museum, you are not a fool.”
“If you keep it, you are not noble.”
“Stop trying to make one choice morally pure.”
Noah stared.
“What should matter?”
“What comes after.”
Silas returned steel to fire.
“Which future do you want to live in?”
Noah went home.
He looked at anvil.