I pulled my station wagon into the shed entrance, the tires crunching softly over the crushed limestone floor.

Carl tucked his pencil into the wire spiral of the notebook and looked up at me without changing his stance.

“Dad, I need a safe place to keep two cardboard boxes of my personal records,” I said, stepping out into the cool shade of the shed.

“What kind of records?” Carl asked, his voice sparse and practical.

“My bookkeeping client files, my birth certificate, and my private tax returns,” I said.

Carl closed his maintenance log, set it on the truck seat through the open window, and walked over to his heavy iron tool chest.