My chest felt tight, as if the air in the small wooden shed had suddenly turned to stone.

“Five thousand,” I whispered.

“That’s a fraction of what they are worth,” Harold said softly.

He reached out and touched the handle of a heavy wooden clamp.

“And more importantly, it’s his father’s life,” Harold added.

“David is desperate,” Rachel said, wiping a stray drop of rain from her temple.

“He’s two months behind on the mortgage, and the bank isn’t giving him any more time.”

She looked at the rows of neatly organized chisels, their steel tips still gleaming with Arthur’s oil.

“He thinks this is his only way out,” she said.

Harold walked slowly to the workbench.

He ran his fingers over the scarred green cutting mat that Arthur had used for his smaller projects.

“I have the money,” Harold said.

The room went entirely still.

The only sound was the steady patter of rain against the corrugated metal roof of the shed.

“Harold, no,” I said, stepping forward. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?” Harold asked, turning to face me.