He disappeared upstairs before I could tell him to finish his homework first.

That evening, I went into the garage and uncovered the generator.

Its metal frame still carried a small replacement guard that looked slightly different from the original.

I had kept the repair invoice in a folder, but I had stopped checking it.

The machine was no longer evidence in a dispute.

It was equipment that had to work when we needed it.

I checked the maintenance schedule and made a note to change the oil before the demonstration.

Then I stood looking at the quiet engine for a moment.

I realized that I could remember the sound of Trish’s voice without feeling the old rush of anger.

That seemed like progress, although I had no intention of announcing it to anyone.

THE HOUSE ON WILLOW STREET

Three days before the demonstration, Denise called with a different request.

A retired teacher named Mrs. Alma Keene had asked whether someone could look at a generator her late husband had purchased years earlier.

She lived alone on Willow Street and had recently begun using a home oxygen concentrator.

Her daughter had arranged backup cylinders, but Alma was worried about the next long outage.

Denise explained that the county could not inspect private electrical systems, and she was not asking me to certify anything.

She only wanted to know whether I would help Alma identify the model and locate the owner’s manual.

I agreed on the condition that we would not attempt to operate it until a qualified service technician had inspected it.

Denise said that was exactly the approach she hoped I would take.

Willow Street ran behind the old elementary school and ended near a frozen creek.

The houses were small and close together, with narrow driveways and porches that leaned under the weight of accumulated snow.

Alma Keene answered the door wearing a red cardigan and a pair of slippers with worn soles.

She was seventy-nine, with silver hair pinned behind one ear and a voice that made every question sound like an invitation to tell the truth.

Her daughter, Julia, had come from Duluth for the afternoon.

Julia led us to a detached shed where a portable generator sat beneath a tarp.

The first thing I noticed was that the fuel line had become stiff and discolored.

The second was a mouse nest tucked beneath the control panel.

I asked how long it had been since the machine had run.

Alma said her husband had tested it the autumn before he died.

That had been six years earlier.