A box fan.
Two discarded drills.
One toaster that Mark had specifically told her not to touch because it still worked.
It no longer worked afterward.
Anna argued that the toaster had contained a manufacturing weakness.
Mark argued that the weakness had not prevented toast until his daughter introduced a screwdriver.
Both statements were true.
She had not come to the education center because she knew anything about Clara Bennett.
She had come because her school required every fifth-grade class to complete a regional history project, and Anna had chosen farm machinery because machinery made more sense to her than politics.
Machines did not become offended when you asked how they worked.
They might be complicated.
They might break.
They might surprise you.
But somewhere inside every machine was an explanation.
Anna liked explanations.
She liked the old Farmall because its mechanisms were visible.
No plastic engine covers.
No sealed electronic modules.
No software.
A lever moved a linkage.
A rod moved another piece.
The steering wheel turned, the shaft transmitted motion, gears changed direction, and eventually front wheels responded.
Even worn play told a story.
Something moved before something else caught.
That meant there was space where there used to be precision.
When the guide told her Clara had been eleven when she restarted the tractor at the auction, Anna stopped treating the story as history and began treating it as a challenge.
On the drive home, she asked her father:
“Could I start something that old?”
Mark kept his eyes on the highway.
“Probably.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do we know anyone with a dead tractor?”
“That is not a normal question.”
“It’s a question.”
Mark thought.
His brother owned a small acreage outside Wahoo.
There was an old garden tractor in a shed.
Not a Farmall.
Not historic.
A 1980s lawn tractor with flat tires and an engine that had not run in at least twelve years.
Mark said:
“Your uncle has an old mower.”
Anna sat straighter.
“Can we have it?”
“No.”
“Can I fix it?”
“I didn’t say yes to anything.”
“You said he has one.”
“That was my mistake.”
The following Saturday they drove to Uncle Dale’s acreage.
The mower was worse than Anna imagined.
Mice had built a nest beneath the engine shroud.
Fuel tank smelled like varnish.
Battery gone.
Seat cracked.
One tire nearly disintegrated.
Anna walked around it with the seriousness of a surgeon evaluating a patient.
Dale laughed.
“That thing’s dead.”
Anna looked up.
“So was Clara’s tractor.”
Mark closed his eyes.
The curse had begun.
Dale said:
“Who’s Clara?”
Mark answered:
“Someone I regret introducing indirectly into my life.”
Anna ignored both.
She opened the hood.
“What did it do when it stopped?”
Dale scratched his beard.
“Stopped mowing.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did it suddenly quit?”
“Maybe.”
“Did it smoke?”
“Probably.”
“Knock?”
“Could’ve.”
“Lose power?”
“Anna.”
“What?”
Dale laughed.
“I parked it because deck broke and bought another one.”
She stared.
“So engine might work?”
“Maybe.”
The mower’s engine was not dead.
It was neglected.
Different problem.
Over several weekends, Anna and Mark cleaned the fuel system, replaced lines, changed oil, installed battery, freed a sticky valve, and removed enough mouse debris to construct a second mouse.
Mark handled tasks requiring adult strength or safety.
Anna did everything else she could.
The engine finally started on the sixth Saturday.
Not dramatically.
No crowd.
No applause.
It sputtered, coughed, smoked badly, and then settled into an uneven idle.