He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a leather wallet.

“No,” David said quickly, his voice sharp but thin. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“It is already done, David,” Harold said gently.

He walked over to Mr. Miller and handed him a folded bill.

Mr. Miller looked at the money, then at the truck, and finally wrote something on his paper with a quick scribble.

“Alright,” Mr. Miller said. “It’s your equipment.”

He turned back toward his truck, his heavy boots clomping against the asphalt.

The metal ramp slid back into the bed of the truck with a loud, clattering screech.

The sound seemed to vibrate in the small space between us.

None of us moved until the truck’s diesel engine roared to life, filling the damp air with gray exhaust.

We watched the truck back out of the driveway, its red taillights reflecting in the puddles near the curb.

When the truck was gone, the street fell completely silent.

Only the crows in the oak trees made any sound.

David stood with his back to the workshop door, his hand still clamped around the brass key.