“We keep five hundred for the county tax deed recording fee,” Nate said.

“That leaves forty-one thousand five hundred, tops.”

“What if someone bids forty-two?”

Nate wiped the pencil tip on his thigh and folded the pad.

“Then we let them walk away with it, and we go back to work.”

Thursday morning came in cold and bright, with a thin glaze of frost on the gravel lot in front of First National Bank on Main Street.

At eight minutes past nine, I stood at the polished brass teller counter.