I saw Mr.

Henderson standing near the back row, tapping his front teeth with his thumbnail as he watched the bidding war unfold.

He leaned over and whispered something to the farmer next to him.

Luke kept his hand pressed firmly against my lower back.

I could feel the warmth of his palm through my heavy winter coat.

He couldn’t bring himself to bid on his mother’s memory, but he wouldn’t step away.

“They have deep pockets,” Luke said.