“Hello?”
Silence.
Then:
“You still got those rusty circles?”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Which one do you need?”
Pause.
“Planter plate.”
“I have several hundred planter plates.”
He sounded irritated.
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“What number?”
He read it.
The girl reached for her notebook.
Nothing.
“Check the machine model.”
He gave it.
She searched another section.
Then asked:
“What seed are you planting?”
“Corn.”
“Rounds or flats?”
Another pause.
“How the hell should I know?”
“Look at the tag.”
He muttered something.
The phone clunked onto a surface.
Two minutes later, he returned.
She asked for the grade.
He told her.
She checked her grandfather’s chart.
Then compared cross-reference numbers.
“I think I have four possibilities.”
“You think?”
“I’m not guaranteeing anything until we compare dimensions.”
The farmer drove over twenty minutes later.
He entered the machine shed.
Stopped.
Hundreds of cleaned and labeled plates filled shelves.
His face changed.
The girl leaned against the workbench.
“Still look like scrap?”
He ignored that.
Mostly.
“Where’d you get all these shelves?”
“Built them.”
“You sorted everything?”
“Most.”
The farmer showed her his broken plate.
A crack ran from the center hub to one cell.
She matched diameter.
Center.
Thickness.
Pattern.
Then brought two candidates.
One matched exactly.
The farmer held it up.
His expression became almost emotional.
“You got another?”
She found three.
“How much?”
The girl could have punished him.
That thought appeared quickly.
He had laughed at her in front of half the county.
Now planting weather was approaching and he needed what she had.
She could have said fifty dollars each.
Maybe he would pay.
Instead:
“Ten dollars each.”
The farmer stared.
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“They’re used.”
He bought all three.
Thirty dollars.
Before leaving, he looked toward the shelves.
“How many different kinds you got?”
“About three hundred patterns so far.”
The man whistled.
Then:
“Don’t tell anybody I came here.”
The girl laughed.
“You think I’m taking out a newspaper ad?”
He frowned.
“You already did.”
He left.
The next morning, the phone rang at 6:12.
Another farmer.
By 7:30, two more.
By noon, six.
The girl stared at the kitchen phone after the sixth call.
Her mother stood at the sink.
“What happened?”
“I think round-face told people.”
Her mother smiled.
“Thought he didn't want anyone knowing.”
“Farm secrets last twenty minutes.”
The calls accelerated.
Not everyone needed to buy.
Some only wanted information.
“What plate for this seed?”
“Do you have a cross-reference?”
“Can this plate substitute for that one?”
“Will this fit?”