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."

Theo notices a photo taped above the workbench: Walt and a smiling woman, both much younger. "That's her," Walt says. "Marguerite. She used to sit right where you are and tell me which clocks to fix first." Theo looks at the empty chair, then at Walt. "That's why there are two chairs," he says softly.