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.

An older woman comes in holding a wooden clock tight against her chest. "It stopped the night my husband passed," she says quietly. "Three years ago. I couldn't bear to wind it again." Walt sets down his tea. He knows that exact kind of silence. "Let's have a look," he says.

Walt studies the clock and shakes his head gently. "The main spring's cracked clean through. I don't have the part." The woman's face falls. "Then it's truly gone." Walt holds up a hand. "Didn't say that. The part exists. An old shop two towns over might have one. Give me a week?"

A week later the woman returns. Walt has the clock ticking on the bench, the new spring inside. She listens, then takes his hand in both of hers. "You didn't just fix a clock," she says. Walt nods. "I know," he says. "Nobody who comes here is ever just bringing me a clock."