Bad tires.
Probably bad wiring.
Unknown fuel system.
Unknown engine internals.
A terrible purchase if you needed a tractor tomorrow.
Potentially interesting if you had time.
Ruth came home around six.
Found Noah at the kitchen table.
Manual open.
Laptop beside it.
Notebook covered with calculations.
“What did you break?”
“Nothing.”
“That is rarely the answer when you have that manual.”
He turned the laptop.
“I need to go to the auction Saturday.”
Ruth put down her grocery bag.
“No.”
“You haven't even looked.”
“I looked at the bank account this morning.”
“No.”
“It’s a 4020.”
“That does not improve the bank account.”
“Grandpa taught me this engine.”
“He taught you about it.”
“That is different from rebuilding one.”
“I know.”
Ruth saw something in his face.
She sat.
“How much?”
“Starting around two hundred, probably.”
“Running?”
“No.”
“That word is carrying a lot of responsibility.”
Noah turned the screen.
Ruth read.
ENGINE WILL NOT TURN.
She looked at him.
“You want to buy a tractor that does not have the courtesy to rotate.”
“I want to inspect it.”
“That's different.”
“Then if it's wrong, I walk away.”
Ruth studied him.
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“No bidding because you're emotional.”
“Yes.”
“No buying because it reminds you of Grandpa.”
Noah looked down.
“That one might be harder.”
Ruth softened.
“Exactly.”
Noah opened a metal tin.
Inside were twenty-dollar bills.
Tens.
Fives.
Coins in a paper roll.
Money earned mowing lawns, cleaning stalls, repairing two neighbor lawn mowers, birthday cash he had not spent.
$263.
Ruth counted.
“That’s all your savings.”
“Yes.”
“Bike?”
“I have a bike.”
“Phone?”
“Works.”
“You've been saving for a dirt bike.”
Noah shrugged.
“Tractor is more useful.”
Ruth almost smiled.
Almost.
Then she went to the bedroom.
Returned with an envelope.
Placed it on the table.
Noah looked.
“What’s that?”
“Emergency cash.”
“How much?”
“One hundred eighty-seven dollars.”
Noah did the math immediately.
$450.
Ruth tapped the envelope.
“This is not permission to spend four hundred fifty.”
“It is the absolute ceiling.”
“If somebody bids 451?”
“I stop.”
“If it reaches 450 and you still don't know what is wrong?”
“I stop.”
“If you get caught in some ridiculous contest with an adult who doesn't want to lose to a child?”
Noah hesitated.
Ruth raised one eyebrow.
“I stop.”
“Good.”
She pushed the money toward him.
“We inspect first.”
Saturday morning, they arrived two hours early.
County equipment auctions were held in an old livestock facility that smelled permanently of dust, diesel, straw, and coffee.
Farm trucks lined the gravel lot.
Flatbed trailers.
Goosenecks.
Men in work jackets standing in circles.
A few families.
Dealers.
Collectors.
People looking for cheap equipment.
People looking for expensive equipment they could call cheap afterward.
Ruth parked near the back.
Noah registered with her beside him because auction rules required an adult responsible for a minor bidder.
Gary Sims at the registration desk looked over his glasses.
“He bidding?”
“If I approve.”
Ruth said.
Gary smiled.
“Know what you're doing?”
Noah answered:
“Probably not enough.”
Gary laughed.
“That already puts you ahead of half the room.”
Lot seven sat at the end of a machinery row.
Up close, it looked worse.
Twenty years of weather had faded the paint almost gray.
The exhaust stack was capped, fortunately.