I pulled up in front of Arthur Gable’s Victorian house on the north end of Oakridge with three heavy wooden clamps and an iron pot of hide glue riding in the truck bed.

Arthur stood on his front steps with a brass key in his right hand.

He didn’t wait for me to shut off the engine before coming down the gravel path to my driver’s door.

“I need to cancel today, Daniel,” he said.

I rolled the window halfway down and brushed a smear of walnut stain off my sleeve.

“The back leg on your dining chair’s already sanded down to bare grain, Arthur.

It’ll only take me two hours.”