On the first Saturday in April, Grandpa's truck pulled into the driveway at eight and honked once, long, and two boys came out of the house instead of one.
The barn was cold, and then the heater ticked and glowed and it wasn't. Grandpa had a riding mower in from a man in Ash Grove who paid in rhubarb, and he put Jordan on the fuel line and Caleb on the blade, and after an hour of that he put them both on the back wall, because Jordan had decided that SPRINGS — DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY GO TO was an insult to the whole system and needed to be broken out into subcategories.
"Long ones," Jordan said, sliding springs across the bench with one finger, like a bank teller counting money. "Short ones. Fat ones. Skinny ones."
"Weird ones," said Caleb.
"There's no such thing as a weird spring."
"You literally have a bin of weird cotter pins."
"Cotter pins can be weird. Springs are just springs."
"That one looks like a pig's tail."
Jordan picked it up and looked at it. He turned it in the light. "Okay," he admitted. "That one's weird."
Grandpa sat on his stool with his coffee and watched them and didn't say anything for a long time. Around eleven he got up and went out to the truck and came back with a shoebox, and he set it on the bench between them and lifted the lid, and inside, under a nest of old receipts and a tangle of extension cord, was a PlayStation 2 with a cracked disc tray, and two controllers with their cords wrapped around them, gray, and a stack of games in cases gone soft at the corners.
"Found it in the closet," Grandpa said, to no one. "Figured I'd throw it out. Unless somebody wants it."
Jordan looked at Caleb. Caleb looked at Jordan.
"Does it still work?" Jordan asked.