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.

Walt opens the robot's back and finds a tiny snapped wire. "See that?" he says, holding it up. "That's the whole problem right there. Small thing." The boy leans in so close their heads almost touch. "Can I help?" he asks. Walt hands him a pair of pliers, handle first.

Together they fix the wire and snap the arm back on. The boy flips the switch and the robot whirs to life, its lights blinking. He laughs so loud it echoes off the garage walls. "You did that," Walt says. "I just handed you the pliers." The boy stands up straighter, beaming with pride.