“Don’t you rub your eyes,” I told Noah.

He rubbed his eyes anyway with the back of his wrist.

I lifted the corner of the closest towel.

The black had soaked through to the counter and already dried along the edge in a hard ring.

By seven on Saturday morning the kitchen smelled of cold exhaust and gear oil.

Noah sat at the table with two dry paper towels spread on his lap, tugging at his socks as he watched me work.

I laid fifty pennies on a clean sheet of kitchen towel and pressed down hard with a dry rag.