By house number four, Dad took his time with me. He has an entire carpentry crew with various specialties, and he wanted me to figure out mine. I didn’t need long. I knew what drew me. There’s nothing in the world like tracing your fingers along the weathered edges of a beautiful piece of furniture, memorizing the creases, inhaling the sharp tang of history. Some people want to add their own flair to restoration. They want to remake it into something new.

Not me. Never me. I want to return it to what it was. There’s such satisfaction and comfort in taking something apart only to make it completely whole once more. And I happen to be good at it. So good, in fact, I no longer have to join my dad on his jobs. I have my own state-of-the-art workshop, paid for with years of crying “on demand.” Whenever my dad takes on a new home, I get first dibs. We walk through together and decide which pieces I’ll restore, and whether I’ll resell them or return them to the historic home they belonged to.

This piece I’m working on now is a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall built-in I begged my dad to buy that came from a 1920s Craftsman. The entire thing had to be carefully dismantled and relocated to my shop for repairs, but I swear it will be worth it in the end. This is one of those heart-stopping kinds of pieces. The kind you buy an entire house for.

At least, that’s what I told my dad. He was on the fence, but my pieces have upped the value of five of his last six flips in the past year alone, so he’s willing to risk it.

I’m completely absorbed in my work, wunderkind country star Annie Mathers’s new solo album blaring over my shop speakers, singing under my breath and smoothing the tip of my pointer finger along the newly sanded edge of a pocket shelf. I’m careful to use only the lightest touch, removing a near century of grime, but leaving the beautiful hardwood unaltered. My shoulders ache with the effort, but it’s a good burn. The kind that feels like an honor to bear—a nod of respect to the original craftsman.

“I met Mathers once. Did I ever tell you that?”

I jump with a screech, the shelf thankfully safely clamped, but my woodworking tools clatter to the floor. I lurch back, my hand clutched to my chest as if it could hold my heart in place.

“Jesus H, Jones, it’s called a doorbell.” I suck in a breath and slowly release it.