“I kept them in the trunk of my car for three years.”

“Every time I saw a loose brick on my chimney, my stomach turned over.”

“Because you couldn’t fix it?” Rachel asked.

“Because I was afraid I would do it wrong,” Harold said. “And every time someone looked at that chimney, they would see my failure.”

“They would see that I wasn’t the man my father was.”

David watched Harold closely.

“What did you do with the tools?” David asked.

“I tried to sell them,” Harold said. “Just like you did.”

“But when the buyer came, I couldn’t let them go.”

“Why?” David asked.

“Because I realized the tools weren’t the problem,” Harold said. “My fear was.”

“And selling the tools wasn’t going to make me any better at laying stone.”

“It was just going to make me a man who let his father’s memory slide away in a cardboard box.”

The rain was starting to fall harder now, a steady patter against the tin roof of the workshop.

David looked at the lathe.

“I don’t even know how to turn the power on,” David said.