“They buy it to rent out.”

We walked toward the middle of the yard.

The frozen gravel crunched under our boots.

A white folding table sat near the open barn doors.

An auction clerk in a blaze-orange beanie was arranging stacks of paper under a pair of heavy brick paperweights.

A line of six people stood waiting to register.

We took our place at the back of the line, right behind a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit.

He was speaking quietly into his phone, a leather binder tucked under his left arm.