His knuckles were raw and red from the cold.

“David,” I said.

He didn’t look at me.

He kept his eyes on the empty space where the truck had been parked.

“He was going to take the lathe first,” David whispered.

“I know,” I said.

“Dad spent three months rebuilding that motor,” he said.

His voice didn’t sound angry anymore; it sounded like a child’s voice, small and lost.

“He did,” I said. “He worked on it every evening after dinner.”

Harold stood a few feet away, his hands clasped in front of him.

He was looking at the ground, giving David his space.

“Why did you stop him?” David asked, looking up at Harold.

“Because you weren’t ready,” Harold said.

“It’s just metal,” David said, though his chest rose and fell quickly.

“It isn’t just metal,” Harold said. “It’s the work of a man’s hands.”

Rachel walked down the steps of the back porch, her arms crossed over her chest.

She had her blue wool cardigan wrapped tight around her.

“What happened?” Rachel asked, looking between us. “Where is the truck going?”