Mr. Lundgren asked, “What’s your father do, Moss?”

I glanced at Nate, who was watching to see what I’d answer. The guys hadn’t pried, since I’d let it be known my business was my business, but he was curious.

I said, “He used to be a farmer, before going into some other things. Mechanics, mainly.”

“Wish I knew more about machines,” Mr. Lundgren said. “I’ve got a tractor that gives me more problems than horses ever did.” He shot a look at Nate. “I shouldn’t have listened to people urging me to make the change.”

All around, it was an uncomfortable few moments for Nate and me both. I tried to help by asking, “Are you having a problem with the tractor now?”

“The thing’s gone underpowered on me. It was working good enough up until a month or so ago, but now I can’t get it to pull what it should.”

“How’s the engine sound?” I asked.

“Rough.”

“The ignition timing out of adjustment?”

“Could be. I don’t have a way to test for it.”

“Maybe run it up a hill?”

He looked puzzled.

“Something my pa taught me, ’cause we didn’t have a timing light, either. If you’d like, I’ll show you.”

I loosened the distributor cap and turned it so the spark plugs would fire just a tad earlier. “When there’s a load on,” I said, “you want sparks to hit the gasoline that’s squirting in just a instant before the pistons hit the top of their cycle. It gives the explosion a chance to build force.”

I tightened back up on the distributor. “Can we try it?”

Mr. Lundgren ran the tractor up a steep bank, which was a quick way to see how it would handle a call for power. “Better,” he said, coming back. “But not quite right.”

So we advanced the spark some more, and some more again, running the tractor up the bank each time, till we advanced the spark too far. And then we backed it to the perfect spot, so the engine was working just right.

“That was one slick trick Moss taught me,” Mr. Lundgren told his family. “I learned something.”

We were gathered around the table again, this time for pot roast and mashed potatoes, gravy, and string beans. Maggie was with us now, in a dress. She smelled of cough syrup, and she’d put on some powdery stuff to tone down the color of her nose.

“Did Dad show you around?” she asked me.

“Some. You’ve got a nice place.”

“Glad you can see that,” Mr. Lundgren said. “Some people don’t seem able to.”

“Dad,” Nate said, “you know—”

“Please,” Mrs. Lundgren broke in. “Don’t you two start.”

Searching for something peaceable to say, I asked Mr. Lundgren, “How long have you been here?”