Every Saturday, Walt opens his garage on Hollis Lane. He sets out two chairs, a kettle, and a sign in his own shaky handwriting: BRING ME WHAT'S BROKEN. He charges nothing. Since his wife Marguerite died, his hands just need somewhere to go. People bring dead radios and stopped clocks. This Saturday, the kettle is barely warm when the first knock comes.

A boy stands in the doorway, maybe nine, holding a toy robot with one arm hanging loose. "My mom said you fix things for free," he says. "Is that a trick?" Walt smiles. "No trick. Pull up a chair." The boy sits down and watches Walt's hands closely, like he's waiting to see a magic trick.

"My dad gave me this robot," the boy says, not looking up. "Before he moved away." Walt keeps his eyes on the screws so the boy can keep talking. "He doesn't call much." Walt nods slowly. "Well," he says, "let's make sure the robot still works. So it's ready when he does."

Weeks later, the boy comes running in, waving a phone. "He called! My dad called! I told him about the robot and he wants to see it!" Walt grins. "Then we'd better polish it up." They sit side by side at the bench, two pairs of hands, getting it ready.