The fuel tank contained rust flakes.
They removed it.
Cleaned it.
Sealed it.
The wiring was terrible.
Mice had eaten insulation.
The lights were hopeless.
The seat looked as though raccoons had used it for housing.
The hydraulic hoses cracked when bent.
The boy began to understand why everyone at the auction saw scrap.
Even with a good engine, the tractor was not going to become useful merely because they wished.
In November, snow came early.
The boy worked after school.
Two hours at a time.
Homework first.
Then shop.
His mother enforced that rule without mercy.
One night he tried hiding math inside an agriculture magazine.
She found it.
“No tractor until fractions.”
“I know fractions.”
“Apparently not number seven.”
He sat at the kitchen table while the tractor waited forty feet away.
He hated number seven.
Eventually he finished.
His mother checked it.
“Wrong.”
He groaned.
She slid the paper back.
“Machines use fractions too.”
“That makes it worse.”
She smiled.
“Good motivation.”
By December, the fuel system was ready.
The engine turned freely.
Compression appeared promising.
No obvious coolant leaks after the repaired radiator went back in.
They primed the oil system before attempting a start.
The boy asked why.
His father looked offended.
“You know why.”
“Because it's been dry.”
“Exactly.”
They made sure oil pressure could develop before allowing combustion.
His grandfather had taught both of them.
“An engine sitting twenty years does not owe you a dramatic first start.”
Treat it like machinery.
Not theater.
Still, when the day came, half the family gathered.
His mother stood near the door.
His older sister pretended she did not care.
A neighbor wandered over suspiciously after seeing activity.
His father sat in the tractor seat.
The boy stood near the engine with a fire extinguisher.
His mother noticed.
“That reassuring?”
“Grandpa always had one.”
“Fair.”
The father turned the key.
The rebuilt starter engaged.
The engine rotated.
Slow.
Then faster.
No firing.
He stopped.
The boy looked disappointed.
“Again?”
“Wait.”
They checked for leaks.
Nothing serious.
Fuel at injectors.
Good.
Second attempt.
The engine turned.
One cylinder coughed.
The boy’s eyes widened.
Another cough.
Gray smoke appeared at the stack.
His sister stepped closer.
The father stopped.
“Why’d you stop?”
The boy nearly yelled.
“Battery.”
“Give the starter a break.”
They waited.
Five minutes felt like an hour.
Third attempt.
Cranking.
Smoke.
One firing event.
Then another.
The engine almost caught.
Lost it.
The boy jumped.
His mother smiled.
“Sit still.”
Fourth attempt.
The 4020 coughed.