I looked up from my paper, and he gave me his wide-open grin. Then his expression turned abruptly serious, a not-too-flattering imitation of me.“I broke my saw,”he said, withdrawing the toy from behind his back.“Here.”
He didn't ask if I could fix it. His trust that I could was a compliment from a small boy to the miracle fixer of tricycles, wagons and assorted toys. The saw's blue plastic handle had snapped. My father, who treasured the tools of all professions, would not have approved of a plastic-handled saw.