“Come with me.”
Mom immediately rose.
“Manuel.”
“It’s time.”
She looked from him to me, then sighed.
“All right. But quietly.”
We left the storage room through the side door and crossed the yard.
Dad did not head toward the house.
He walked toward his old workshop.
I had grown up in that workshop.
When I was a child, it smelled of cedar shavings, varnish, coffee, and summer heat. Dad had built dining tables there, cabinets, bookshelves, church pews, rocking chairs, and once an enormous walnut desk for a judge who insisted on paying him twice the quoted price.
Derek and I used to sweep sawdust for pocket money.
The workshop had been closed for years except when Dad took small commissions.
He unlocked the front door with an ordinary key.
Inside, moonlight fell through the dusty windows.
His tools hung where they always had.
Dad walked to the longest workbench.
