The old man took off his cap, revealing white hair and hands deformed by arthritis. “My name is Harvey Berry.”

The name meant nothing to me.

“I was your grandfather Walter’s best friend.”

My heart stopped. My grandfather had died before I was born. In my house, nobody ever spoke about him, except to say he’d been stubborn.

“He used to call me his brother,” Harvey said.

He drew an old photograph out of the briefcase: two young men covered in sawdust, laughing beside a half-built cabin. One was my grandfather. The other was Harvey.