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 young man in a delivery uniform steps in, out of breath. "Sorry, I'm not here to fix anything," he says. "I'm lost. But I saw your sign and I just had to stop." He looks around at all the tools. "My grandfather had a bench like this." Walt nods at the empty chair. "Sit a minute. The kettle's on."