The hardware store on Main Street smelled of cedar mulch, motor oil, and dusty seed bags.

At ten past ten the next morning I walked past the nail bins with Bob’s red tin lunchbox tucked under my arm.

He’d left it on the kitchen counter next to his cold cup of coffee.

His office in the back corner was cramped, tucked in behind the displays of galvanized buckets and handsaws.

The door was half open, and I could see Bob standing over his wooden desk with a stubby yellow pencil tucked behind his ear.

“You forgot your roast beef sandwich,” I said, walking in and setting the red tin box on top of a pile of paint catalogs.