The sharp smell of pine varnish hung in the cool autumn air, drifting over the main workbench, where a damaged oak vanity table sat balanced across two heavy wooden sawhorses.

Mark stood on the far side of the table holding a block of fine sandpaper.

At twenty-two he had my wide shoulders and his own quiet habit of standing with both hands jammed in his back pockets whenever he stopped to look over his work.

“The left back leg had a deep split right by the joint,” Mark said, taking one hand out to point at the dark grain.

“I glued it yesterday morning before my morning shift.”