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For twenty minutes, Elliot had stared at it. Not because it was complicated—it was just his name (Dean Forest) plus "Works." But because finally , after six years of sanding other people's floors and restoring other people's heirlooms, he had clicked "purchase."

Elliot wiped his hands. "A desk."

He shut the phone off.

Elliot saw a desk.

Elliot leaned back in his workshop chair. Around him, the air smelled of linseed oil and cedar shavings. A half-finished cradle—curved like a river stone—sat clamped to his bench. His grandfather's old radio murmured jazz from the corner. deanforestworks