Nobody moved. The auctioneer waited, then tried again, lowering the price to a thousand dollars. Still, no hand rose. A tall old farmer near the front took off his cap and turned it slowly in his fingers. “That is Cecil’s Farmall,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Anybody bids on it is a thief.” A low murmur rolled across the yard.

Then a battered pickup skidded through the gate, and Travis jumped out, red faced, shouting that the sale was legal. The crowd parted around him in silence. Dwight stepped between us and held up a phone. “Son, I just got a call from the hospital,” he said quietly. “Your father is awake.” Travis froze, and every eye in that yard turned toward him.