The wooden gavel hit the brass plate on the podium with a sharp crack that echoed off the brick buildings across the square.

“Sold to Nathan and Emily Schafer for forty-one thousand five hundred dollars,” Dobbs shouted.

At one o’clock on Sunday, Ron and Judy were sitting in their usual armchairs while Nate and I sat on the flowered sofa.

Ron rested one heavy palm on the back of Judy’s chair, his eyes on the muted TV in the corner.

“We were down at the farm supply store in town Friday morning,” Judy said, smoothing her linen skirt over her knees.

“They had four-packs of waffle-weave dish towels on sale for three dollars.”