The old farmer knew the engine was not seized before he ever touched a wrench.
He knew because of two sounds almost nobody else in the repair shop seemed to hear.
Click.
Click.
They came after the starter stopped.
That was the important part.
Five mechanics had spent nearly six hours around the red tractor.
They had checked the battery.
Starter.
Oil.
Compression.
Belts.
Ignition.
They had removed plugs, rotated what they could, leaned on breaker bars, exchanged theories, argued over clearances, and finally reached the diagnosis they all believed explained everything.
The engine had locked internally.
Seized.
Finished.
The tractor that had worked the old farmer's land for most of his life was now worth little more than parts and sentiment.
The senior mechanic had folded his arms beside the right rear wheel and delivered the verdict twenty minutes earlier.
“Could be a bearing welded itself to the crank.”
The old farmer had said nothing.
“Could be a broken rod.”
Still nothing.
“Could be rust in a cylinder if water got where it shouldn’t.”
The old farmer had looked toward the exhaust stack.
“No rain cap failure.”
The senior mechanic shrugged.
“Doesn’t have to be rain.”
One of the younger mechanics wiped his hands on a shop towel.
“We put a bar on it. Won’t move either direction.”
The farmer nodded.
He had heard.
The senior mechanic continued.
“You want us to know exactly what happened, we split it.”
“How much?”
“Before parts?”
The farmer waited.
“Four thousand just to get serious.”
The young mechanic sitting on the tractor lowered his eyes.
The senior mechanic added:
“Could be ten by the time we’re done.”
The old farmer looked at the red hood.
Fresh polish could not hide seventy years.
Small dents remained around the grille.
The left rear fender carried a crease his father had made backing into a gatepost before the old farmer was born.
One footrest had been welded twice.
The steering wheel had a smooth place where three generations of hands had held it.
He had replaced almost everything replaceable over the decades.
Hoses.
Bearings.
Gaskets.
Generator.
Clutch.
Radiator core.
Seat.
Tires.
But it was still, in the ways that mattered to him, his father’s tractor.
He asked:
“You sure?”
The senior mechanic’s jaw tightened.
“We’re not guessing.”
Five men stood within earshot.
Nobody contradicted him.
The old farmer looked at the youngest mechanic.
“You?”
The young man hesitated.
“I don’t see another explanation.”
Not the same as yes.
The old farmer noticed that.
He walked around the tractor once.
Slowly.
His knees hurt in cold weather now, although he refused to discuss it.
He placed one hand on the hood.
Metal cool beneath his palm.
The tractor had arrived at the shop on a flatbed that morning.