“I understand the rules.”
Vernon removed his microphone from its stand.
“The rules include my authority to reject bids if I believe the bidder cannot complete the purchase.”
“I can pay seventy-five dollars.”
“You planning to tow that thing home yourself?”
“I’ll arrange transport.”
“With what?”
“That isn’t part of the bid.”
Someone near the back muttered:
“She’s right.”
Vernon’s face tightened.
Calvin had reached the tractor.
May saw his attention shift toward the left frame rail.
Her heart slammed.
If he wiped away the grease—
She moved.
Vernon stepped down from the platform.
“Where are you going?”
May ignored him.
Calvin crouched beside the tractor.
May reached it first.
She dropped to one knee in the straw, slid one hand beneath the frame, and rubbed at a rectangular metal plate hidden under decades of grease.
Calvin froze.
There.
Numbers emerged.
May pulled the folded sheet from her jacket pocket.
The paper had come from one of Samuel’s machinery books.
Three months earlier, she had copied a list of unusual John Deere factory prefixes from his handwritten notes because she was trying to understand an argument he had scribbled in the margin beside an article about early demonstration tractors.
Samuel had circled one range twice.
The exact same prefix sat beneath May’s fingers.
Vernon reached them.
“What are you doing?”
May pointed.
“This serial plate wasn’t listed in the catalog.”
Vernon stared.
“Because it’s junk.”
“Then why didn’t you list the number?”
Calvin stood abruptly.
“That’s enough.”
May looked at him.
“You knew.”
“I knew what?”
“You knew where the number was.”
Calvin gave a short laugh.
“Every tractor has a serial number.”
“Then read it.”
He did not.
That told her more than if he had.
An elderly farmer named Henry Walsh pushed through the gathering crowd.
Henry had collected antique machinery since before May was born. Samuel used to call him the only man in Nebraska capable of arguing three hours about paint codes and considering it recreation.
Henry adjusted his glasses.
“What’s the prefix?”
May read it.
“XFD-17-004.”
Henry stopped.
“Again.”
She repeated it.
Something changed in his face.
He crouched.
Ran a thumb over the plate.
Read it himself.
Then whispered:
“That number can’t be right.”
The barn became so quiet May could hear straw moving beneath somebody’s boot.
Vernon’s voice came weaker now.
“What does it mean?”
Henry did not answer immediately.
Instead he inspected the front casting.
Then the transmission housing.
He moved toward the hood.
Scratched gently at an area where gray-green paint flaked from the metal.
A darker shade appeared beneath.
Henry straightened.
“This isn’t a standard production tractor.”
Calvin spoke quickly.
“Henry, don’t start.”
Henry turned.
“Why?”
“You haven’t authenticated anything.”
“Didn’t say I had.”
“You’re creating confusion.”
Henry smiled without humor.
“Then help me clear it up.”
He pointed toward the serial plate.
“Why does a scrap tractor have an experimental factory prefix?”
Murmurs erupted.