I’d asked Trent to fix that runner twice in five years, and both times he’d said he’d get around to it.

I went out to the garage and found a screwdriver.

The runner had a stripped screw.

I swapped it for a longer one from the coffee can of odd hardware my father kept and I’d never thrown away.

Four minutes later the drawer ran straight and closed against the stop.

Five years against four minutes.

The screwdriver went into the drawer I’d just fixed, and I closed it slowly, twice, just to hear the runner glide.

The doorbell hadn’t rung in four days.