There was no hum of a garage door motor overhead, no heavy footsteps on the ceiling, no kitchen TV playing commercials in the background.

I set the handkerchief down beside the glasses and went into the hallway to count the wooden coat hangers in the closet.

The neighborhood hardware store was three blocks down the street, squeezed between a bakery and a shuttered bait shop.

A brass bell jingled against the glass as I pushed the heavy door open.

An old yellow retriever was asleep on a rag rug beside a display of galvanized steel buckets.

I wandered down the narrow aisles, looking over the neatly stacked bins of brass screws, spools of copper wire and wooden tool handles.