So he looked for small jobs he could do safely.
A retired neighbor paid him to collect fallen branches from a lawn.
A family friend gave him a few dollars for organizing old hand tools.
His grandmother's cousin paid him to sweep a porch and carry lightweight garden supplies.
He returned aluminum cans for recycling.
Saved birthday money.
And stopped buying candy after school.
Every dollar went into the coffee tin.
The tin had once belonged to his grandfather.
It was an old round container with a faded red label and a small dent near the lid.
Years earlier, the old man had used it to store odd screws and washers.
One day, he cleaned it out and gave it to the boy.
"Every good mechanic needs somewhere to keep treasure."
The child laughed.
"Money?"
The grandfather shook his head.
"Anything worth saving."
The boy had used it ever since.
Sometimes for coins.
Sometimes small notes.
Sometimes a screw or metal washer that reminded him of a repair.
After the old man's death, it became a place to keep money for the tractor.
He counted the savings every Sunday.
One hundred and ninety-two dollars.
Two hundred and six.
Two hundred and eighteen.
Then two hundred and forty-one.
His mother watched quietly.
She worried that he was investing too much hope in something they might lose.
But she also understood that the work gave him purpose.
He was not sitting alone feeling powerless.
He was doing what he could.
One afternoon, a retired white American farmer who lived down the road found the boy sorting coins on the porch.
The older man was seventy-three, with deeply weathered skin, large hands, and a slow way of speaking.
He had known the grandfather for almost fifty years.
They had helped each other during harvests.
Borrowed tools.
Argued about equipment brands.
And shared coffee inside the machine shed on cold mornings.
The older farmer sat beside the boy.
"What's all that?"
The child looked up.
"Tractor money."
The old man smiled sadly.
"I heard."
He studied the coffee tin.
Then asked.
"How much you got?"
The boy hesitated.
"Two hundred and forty-one dollars and sixty cents."
The old farmer raised his eyebrows.
"That's respectable."
The boy nodded.
Then looked toward the empty barn.
The older man followed his gaze.
For several seconds, neither spoke.