When I showed him the gloves, he told me to sew them.

He was not wrong that they could be repaired.

He was wrong to act as if their condition meant nothing.

That memory stayed with me as I passed the abandoned gas station and turned onto a gravel road lined with old warehouses.

The address on the tag belonged to a squat brick building with two windows facing the street.

There was no sign, just a small porch light and a clean welcome mat.