By June, Brian was working weekdays at Gus’s shop, learning how to carefully open watch cases and repair delicate mechanisms. His hands, which had once shaken so badly, became remarkably steady when he had something fragile to hold. Mom, meanwhile, decided to use the Pine Lake property. In April, she and I walked the three acres together, touching the pine trees and imagining what might be possible. She wanted a small cabin with a porch and a window facing the water. That summer, the three of us began building it ourselves. Gus helped on weekends, and even Daniel Hale joined us, proving surprisingly skilled with a level. Brian worked on the roof, sober and sunburned, hammering each nail as though he were finally building something he could be proud of.

On the first anniversary of Gus’s visit, we gathered on the cabin porch with coffee and lemon bars. The lake was silver beneath the morning light, and a loon called from somewhere beyond the reeds. Brian stood up and announced that he had been sober for 365 days. Then he reached into his jacket and produced a velvet box. It was the same box Gus had carried to Mom’s house. Brian placed it in front of her. Inside lay Dad’s watch, polished and ticking perfectly. He told her Dad had not left it behind by accident, and he believed it should belong to someone who understood what it had cost. He asked her to wear it for as long as she wished. Mom opened the box, and her hands began to tremble.