“For the same price.”

“No interest.”

“No rush.”

David stared at Harold as if trying to find the lie.

The man in the canvas jacket was walking up the driveway now.

He carried a clipboard under his arm.

“Hey,” the man called out.

“Are we loading this stuff or what?”

David didn’t answer him right away.

He looked at the open door of the workshop.

He looked at the yellow light bulb burning inside, casting long shadows across the floorboards.

“Why would you do that?” David asked Harold, his voice dropping.

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re just giving me money.”

“No,” Harold said.

“I am saving something of value.”

“For you.”

“And for your mother.”

The man with the clipboard reached the edge of the lawn.

“Mr. Whitaker?” the man asked, looking at David.

“I’ve got the ramp down.”

“We need to start with the table saw first if we’re going to fit the lathe.”

David stood between Harold and the liquidator.

His face was pale under the gray sky.

His knuckles were white where he held the keys.