The auction took place the following Thursday outside the courthouse.
About twenty people attended.
A landlord from a neighboring county appeared especially interested in the farmhouse.
Bidding began at $20,000.
Nate offered twenty-five.
The landlord raised it.
The price climbed steadily.
Thirty thousand.
Thirty-five.
Thirty-eight.
At forty thousand, I could barely breathe.
The landlord bid forty-one.
Nate glanced at me.
We both understood our limit.
“Forty-one thousand five hundred,” he called.
The landlord hesitated.
Then shook his head.
“¡Vendido!” Anunció el subastador.
Miré a Nate.
We’d bought a farmhouse.
For $41,500.
At the county office, I handed over a cashier’s check for $40,000.
Then I counted out the remaining $1,500 in small bills, much of it saved from diner tips.
The clerk gave us a receipt and an envelope containing seven old keys.
We drove directly to the property.
De pie debajo de su porche colapsado, Nate sostenía las llaves entre nosotros.
