Two older men stood by a heavy oak workbench, measuring a length of walnut with a brass ruler.

One of them, a silver-haired man named Frank in wire-rimmed glasses, looked up and grinned.

“You joining the Tuesday crew?”

“I am,” I said. “I’m Robert Mitchell.”

“Glad to have you, Robert,” Frank said.

“We’re making salad bowls this month.

Grab an apron off the hook by the wall.”

I folded the yellow receipt and slipped it into my leather wallet.