At a quarter to five, the rain began coming down cold and steady on the driveway.

I went out to the backyard garage where my father had kept his woodworking tools.

The air inside smelled of old pine shavings, copper wire and brass polish.

My father’s workbench still stood against the back pegboard under a thin film of dust.

Under the bench sat a blue metal recycling bin full of thrown-out household papers and junk mail.

I crouched and flipped over the top layer of old hardware catalogs.