But then I thought of Sarah — sawdust on her sleeves, sitting beside me in the workshop, telling me that everyone deserved a chance to be better tomorrow than they were today.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll take you up on that.”
I gave him the number.
“Twelve chairs.”
The man looked at the row of chairs again, then back at me, and something had shifted completely behind his eyes. He lowered his head once more, then moved to pull his car forward.
I climbed back in, lifted the door the way I always do, and pulled it shut. The engine coughed twice before it caught.
In my rearview mirror, he was still standing there — watching my old truck pull away like it was worth more than everything else in that lot.
He was still standing there.
And maybe, for the first time all day, he understood that it was.
Sarah always said the wood knows what it’s meant to become.
I think sometimes people do too. They just need the right moment to show them.
