I climbed over the chain-link fence to my neighbor’s yard, a fistful of twenties in my hand. My neighbor, Al, had replaced some rotting boards on my deck while I was at work. His apartment was tacked onto another house, enclosed but flimsy and without a real foundation. Al worked for his landlord’s roofing company, and I’m pretty sure he got the apartment in lieu of pay.

Al was smoking on his doorstep. His big, leathery, tanned shoulders—Al was shirtless for nine months of the year—were drooping, his head hanging between his knees. “Thanks for your help today,” I said, holding the cash out to him. But he shook his head.

I pushed the cash toward him again. He brushed it away.

“Why not? It looks great!” I said, nodding toward my deck.

“Because I pawned your circular saw.” I had left my tools out for him to use.

“Dude, that was my dad’s saw!”