Chapter 6 - An Old Toolbox
With the immediate threat of eviction eradicated, Arthur refused to let the money sit in idle comfort. His sense of duty, forged through decades of labor, demanded purpose.
One Saturday morning, an unmarked flatbed truck pulled up to the curb. Out stepped an older gentleman wearing a denim jacket, stepping around the curious onlookers.
"Arthur Vance?" the man called out.
Arthur walked down the stairs. The man lowered the truck’s hydraulic lift, revealing an array of heavy cast-iron machinery: an antique industrial table saw, a floor planer, and crates of seasoned walnut and white oak.
"Name’s David Miller—Mark’s uncle," the man said, wiping his grease-stained hands. "I ran a mill upstate that closed last spring. The internet folks raised a pool to buy this equipment from the bank. They said a master craftsman shouldn't spend his golden years counting pennies."
Arthur ran his fingers across the cold, oiled bed of the jointer. It was the exact model he had been forced to sell to pay for Sarah's final chemotherapy sessions. A craftsman's hands never truly forget their language; his fingers curved instinctively around the cast-iron wheel.
May you like
"I have no shop to put this in," Arthur whispered.
Mark appeared at the corner, grinning. "We already rented the empty brick warehouse behind the bakery."
