He kept his eyes locked on the gavel.

“Forty-one thousand five hundred,” Nate said.

Vance tapped his pencil on his clipboard, spat on the stone, and turned his back on the stairs.

“Who’ll give me forty-two?” Dobbs yelled, scanning the faces on the steps.

Nobody moved.

Two blocks away, a diesel truck shifted gears on Main Street.

“Forty-one thousand five hundred going once,” Dobbs yelled, raising the wooden gavel high in the air.

“Forty-one thousand five hundred going twice.”