I turned around and scanned the rows of heavy coats and thick hats pressing in behind us.

Walt stood at the very back of the yard.

He wore his good black church coat, the heavy wool one he usually saved for Sunday mornings and funerals.

The collar was turned up against the harsh north wind, framing his weathered face.

He stood perfectly still near the edge of the gravel driveway, his arms hanging motionless at his sides.

He didn’t have a bidding card in his hands.