He wasn’t buying a childhood home.

He was acquiring a spreadsheet asset for a corporate portfolio.

Denny Kruse leaned over the edge of the hay wagon.

The cold March wind whipped the collar of his jacket against his chin.

He pointed his wooden gavel straight at my chest.

“I have two hundred ninety-five,” Denny said.

“I’m looking for three hundred thousand.”

I raised the white cardboard square.