I look around in amazement, feeling his eyes on me. He doesn’t say a single word. Which is kind of weird. That’s when it hits me.

“This is your thing,” I say. “This is your photography.”

He nods.

“Metalwork.”

“Yep.” He pulls out the steel stool from under his workbench. “I made this.”

It’s not fancy. Simple, clean lines. And I can see where it was welded together at the joints. But it’s beautiful. And it doesn’t squeak like the stool behind the counter at the Nook.

Before I can open my mouth to say anything, he points to other things and explains what each is for and how they came to be: A basket-shaped dome around a light fixture that was once a tin can. A cage he salvaged from a crab trap that holds more scrap parts. A set of drawers from a 1950s paint shop that he cut up and reassembled. He melts down metal. Cuts it up. Joins it. Makes it into something new.

“You’re an artist,” I finally say, stunned. “Like me.”

“Craftsperson,” he corrects. “Small difference. I need things I make to have a practical purpose.”

“For the coming apocalypse,” I say, remembering our talk on the Quarterdeck.

He chuckles. “Hey, I like art, too. A lot. But this … is my thing. It’s just a personal choice. Like your photographs of signs. This is what speaks to me, I guess.”

“Hey, I get that.” I look around. “You rebuilt your motorcycle here.”

“Yep.”

“You weld.”

“I do,” he says, nodding.

I blink up at all the scraps of metal hanging from the rafters. There’s something else up there too. A sword. “What about that?”

“That,” he says, taking it down to unsheathe a rustic black blade, “is what I’m learning. The forge.”

“Wow,” I say, touching the pommel. “So cool. You can fight off zombie hordes.”

“Maybe slice off an arm or two before it goes dull,” he says with a shy smile. “Not that great at forging yet. It’s hard work. But really cool. You can hammer iron into anything you want, if you’re patient. Not sure I am, but I’ve got a good teacher. I just haven’t had time to take lessons from him lately, what with everything going on.”

Iron. Hammer. Forge. Anvil.

Blacksmith.

“Your shirt—the one you were wearing when you took me out on the boat …”

He nods and looks at me a little funny. Like maybe he’s surprised I remembered it?

“The blacksmith,” I say. “There’s a blacksmith on Lamplighter Lane with a wrought-iron wolf hanging above the shop. That’s what was on your shirt. That’s your teacher?”

“Mr. Sideris,” he says, nodding slowly. Squinting at me.

Why is he looking at me so strangely?