Crying out in rage, I threw my rag to the counter, stuck my bleeding finger into my mouth, and stamped my foot. I probably would have stamped again, except I noticed Mr. Colella giving me a warning stare.

I took a deep breath and tried to get my temper under control. I knew I might lose my job if I didn’t watch myself, and I didn’t want that to happen. Not only did I really need the money, I actually liked working with the strange junk the old man kept in his antique shop.

I took my finger from my mouth to look at the cut. It went straight across my fingertip. And it hurt like crazy. All those nerves so close to the surface, I guess.

Scanning the countertop, I found what had snagged me—the top of a screw Mr. Colella had used to make a repair and hadn’t wound deeply enough into the wood.

I was still hunting for a Band-Aid when Mr. Colella shouted, “Jonathan, come here. I need your help.”

Pressing thumb against fingertip to stem the bleeding, I went to the back room.

Mr. Colella was standing in front of a large wooden crate. “Open this,” he said, handing me a crowbar. “Gently.”

The mirror inside the crate—a Japanese mirror, according to Mr. Colella—was nearly eight feet tall. The glass was surrounded by a wooden frame carved with interlocking designs and finished in black lacquer. I couldn’t help but imagine strange messages hidden among those whorling symbols. Though the silvering behind the glass had worn thin in two or three places, for the most part the reflection it gave was clean and pure.

“Not bad, eh?” said Mr. Colella, once I had all the packing pulled away. He pulled at the ends of his gray mustache, always a sign that he was pleased with an item.

“What do you think you’ll get for it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s in good condition; it’s a little unusual. Given its age, it could go for maybe three thousand. Maybe a little more, if I find the right buyer.”

My heart sank. For a moment I had considered trying to buy the mirror myself.

Either Mr. Colella didn’t see my disappointment or he chose to ignore it. “Here,” he said, handing me one of his seemingly endless supply of rags. “Polish.”

“Probably wouldn’t have fit in my room anyway,” I muttered as I went to fetch a stepladder so I could reach the top.