The silence stretched so long that a rooster crowed somewhere behind the pens. The auctioneer repeated his call, then lowered his voice. “Six thousand, anyone?” Not a hand moved. An old farmer in a faded seed cap slowly walked to the front, took off his hat, and stood beside the tractor like a guard. One by one, men around him did the same, forming a quiet ring around Lot 44.

Then a pickup rolled through the gate, too fast, and Trevor jumped out, red-faced. “What is this?” he shouted. “I consigned it, you have to sell it!” Hank stepped between them. “Son, there is a call for you,” he said, holding out a phone. “It is the hospital.” Trevor’s face went gray as he listened, and the phone slipped from his hand.