Nate stood in front of the desk in his good Easter pants, his hands folded behind his back the way he always held them when he was asking for extra work.

Frank looked up, slid his wire-rimmed reading glasses down his nose, and pointed a grease-stained thumb toward the back lot.

I couldn’t hear the words through the double glass, but I watched Frank take a yellow legal pad out of his top drawer and write Nate’s name at the top of a fresh page.

He wrote two phone numbers next to Nate’s name and underlined them twice in blue ballpoint.

Nate nodded once, shook Frank’s heavy hand, and walked back out to the truck with his shoulders squared.