simply showed up one Saturday morning with lumber in the bed of his pickup. ” “So does duct tape. ” He spent six hours building them. Oak. Perfect joints. Smooth finish. Inside the lower shelf, where almost nobody would see, he carved my initials. R. Tiny letters. I still run my fingers over them most mornings. The first time Franco visited my childhood home and saw the old greenhouse still leaning in the backyard, he stood in the doorway for several seconds. ” He rubbed one thumb over the replacement hinge. ” He looked
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