At that instant, a young mother pushed a pram along the sidewalk in front of Ivan’s exposed workshop. The woman gently rocked the carriage with one hand while with the other she waved a blue teddy bear before the open hood. Neither action consoled the infant, whose cries were piercing and persistent.

“Good morning, Allison!” Peters cried. He waved and grinned at her. Allison waved back tiredly. Peters then turned back to Ivan and mumbled, “That kid sounds like a boiled cat. Imagine hearing that at three in the morning?” He shuddered with disgust.

Ivan reached over and closed the book.

“I’ll pay you,” announced Peters. “I know you need the money.”

When he saw the expression on Ivan’s face, saw the way the older man puffed up his sizeable frame, Peters raised his hands in a gesture of peacekeeping.

“Please,” he began, “don’t take offence. It’s just…well, I watch. I see things. I’m good at taking little pieces of detail and seeing how they fit into a larger mosaic. This workshop, for instance. When my wife and I first moved onto this street, we’d see throngs of people on your driveway every Saturday and Sunday.”

Ivan nodded mournfully. “My sales. My Edwina used to help me every weekend…”

“I remember. I think almost every house on the block had at least one piece of your ironwork; fireplace tools, patio furniture, garden gates.”

“Every house except yours,” Ivan replied. He, too, was good at noting details.

“That’s why I’m here; to correct that. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve had one of your sales. I’d imagine your bills are piling up. And before you ask, I deduced this after your wife passed last year. My condolences, by the way. You haven’t hosted a sale since. I remember that day in January when your car wouldn’t start. You had it towed and I haven’t seen it since. The repairs must have been outside your budget. You’ve been practically housebound.”

Ivan emitted an unintentional sigh of lament. “If I make that mask,” he began, “what were you thinking of paying?”

Peters named a sum that stole Ivan’s breath.

“I don’t believe you,” Ivan said thinly.

Peters produced an envelope plump with bills.

At Peters’ insistence, Ivan counted them, fumblingly.

“How does a schoolteacher come up with that kind of money?”

“Family,” Peters said plainly. “Now, let me go over a few of the key details.” He once again opened the torture book to the chosen page.