“There it is.”
Silas ignored him.
Noah stared.
“For this?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
Dale snorted.
“Because it's not worth anything.”
Silas turned.
“You want to buy it?”
Dale shrugged.
“I'll give him a hundred.”
Noah looked at him.
Silas smiled faintly.
“You just doubled your valuation.”
Dale's face reddened.
“I'm being nice.”
“To whom?”
Silas asked.
Dale stared.
Then looked toward Noah.
“One-fifty.”
The barn became quiet.
Noah’s pulse accelerated.
Silas said nothing.
Dale continued.
“Two hundred.”
Noah looked at the anvil.
Less than five minutes earlier Dale called it scrap.
“No.”
“Two-fifty.”
“No.”
“Three.”
“No.”
Dale laughed.
“Kid.”
Noah looked directly at him.
“You told me I paid too much.”
“I was joking.”
“No.”
“You were trying to make me feel stupid.”
Several people shifted uncomfortably.
Dale spread his hands.
“Fine.”
“Five hundred.”
That got attention.
Five hundred dollars was nearly ten times Noah’s purchase price.
Silas watched.
Noah's throat went dry.
He imagined handing his mother five hundred dollars.
Electric bill.
Diesel.
Groceries.
Maybe new tires for the truck.
Then he looked toward Silas.
The old blacksmith did not nod.
Did not shake his head.
He was making Noah decide.
Noah asked Dale:
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why five hundred?”
Dale shrugged.
“I like old iron.”
“You said you didn't.”
“I changed my mind.”
“What changed?”
No answer.
Noah shook his head.
“No.”
Dale’s eyes hardened.
“One thousand.”
Someone whispered behind them.
Noah felt as though the floor had shifted.
He had spent fifty-five.
Now one thousand.
His hand moved toward the edge of the table.
Silas said quietly:
“Don't.”
Noah looked at him.
“Don't what?”
“Touch anything until pictures are taken.”
Dale snapped:
“You're coaching him.”
Silas looked at him.
“Yes.”
“He didn't ask.”
“He doesn't need to.”
Dale stepped closer.
“This sale isn't even finalized.”
The auctioneer frowned.
“It is.”
“He’s a minor.”
“His mother registered him under family bidder number.”
The auctioneer lifted clipboard.
“Lot paid.”
Dale looked toward Noah.
“Two thousand.”
Silence.
Even the auctioneer stopped smiling.
Noah heard his own heartbeat.
Two thousand dollars.
His mother had delayed replacing the cracked greenhouse heater because they did not have two thousand dollars to spare.
Their farm was not destitute.
But it was close enough to uncertainty that numbers mattered.
Silas looked toward Noah.
“Call your mother.”
Noah took out his phone.
He stepped away.
His mother answered on the third ring.
“Did you buy it?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”