Clara looked up from the workbench.
"What?"
"Dean Holloway says you're making lawn ornaments."
"Dean Holloway also thinks margarine causes baldness."
Thomas considered.
"He is bald."
"Exactly."
Her father looked around.
At least nine broken castings filled the shop.
He pointed toward the nearest engine block.
"What's this really about?"
Clara removed her safety glasses.
"Repair."
"Those can't be repaired."
"Some can."
"Not worth it."
"Sometimes."
Thomas frowned.
"What are you doing?"
She hesitated.
Then showed him the fixture.
Prototype 7.
It had a rigid frame that could span part of an engine block.
A sliding carriage allowed drilling along a marked fracture.
Replaceable guide bushings controlled hole placement.
Small clamping shoes could be repositioned.
It was still ugly.
But it worked better.
Thomas stared.
"You built this?"
"Mostly."
"What does it do?"
"Helps guide a mechanical crack repair."
He looked again.
"No welding?"
"No."
"Stitching?"
"Similar."
"Walter did that."
"I know."
Thomas touched the guide carriage.
"Why not just do it by hand?"
"Because Grandpa knew what he was doing."
"So do you."
"Sometimes."
Thomas looked at her.
"Clara."
"What?"
"You've been doing this every night for two months."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She pointed toward the 806 visible through the shop window.
"Because that tractor is one crack away from being a very expensive monument."
Thomas's face changed.
The humor disappeared.
"Engine's fine."
"Today."
"It has never cracked."
"That doesn't make it immortal."
He looked toward the tractor.
Then back at the fixture.
"You think you can fix a block if it cracks?"
Clara answered carefully.
"I think I can improve the odds."
Thomas did not like uncertainty.
Farmers rarely do.
But honest uncertainty was better than false confidence.
He nodded slowly.
"Don't spend too much money."
Clara almost laughed.
"I'm building it from garbage."
"Garbage gets expensive when you collect enough."
That was fair.
Earl Voss became Clara's largest supplier.
He also became her loudest critic.
Whenever she arrived, he made announcements.
"Attention. Garbage department is here."
Or:
"Hide your broken iron. Clara's building a museum."
Or:
"Anybody got a dead engine? She feeds them after dark."
Clara answered with silence.
Sometimes silence frustrated him more than insults would have.
In March, she arrived for a cracked John Deere head.
Snow was melting.
Mud swallowed half the yard.
Earl stood beside a barrel stove inside the office.
"You know what your problem is?"
Clara pulled on gloves.
"I came here hoping you'd tell me."
"You think too much."
"Terrible habit."
"Your grandfather thought too much too."
Clara paused.
That sounded different.
Not mockery.
Memory.
"You knew him pretty well?"
"Everybody did."
"What did he buy from you?"
"Broken things."
Clara smiled.
Earl pointed.
"Exactly."