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“Drill bits.”

“What kind?”

The question catches Ben completely off guard. He looks down at the box. “Masonry.”

Locke waits for the word to become useful.

“For drilling into brick. Concrete. Stuff like that.”

“Can I see?”

Ben glances at his mother. Mrs. Calhoun gives him one of those maternal looks that conveys an entire paragraph without her saying a word.

He swallows. “Sure.”

He sets the box on the counter and opens it.

Two minutes later, he’s explaining why masonry bits have different tips from the ones Tom uses on wood. Four minutes later, the color is back in his face. By eight, he has forgotten enough of his fear to interrupt Locke when he thinks Locke has misunderstood something.

I stand beside a display of work gloves and watch the transformation happen.

Locke stops being the impossible thing Ben found in my yard. He becomes the guy asking whether carbide is worth paying extra for. It hits me unexpectedly hard.

Mrs. Calhoun comes to stand beside me. “He scared the life out of that boy.”

“I know.”

“He also told everybody in school before he made it back to the store.”

“That part I definitely know.”

“I took his phone for six hours.”

I look at her. “Cruel and unusual.” I pause, then add, “And thank you for that.”

“He survived.”

Across the aisle, Ben hands Locke a cordless drill.

“This one has more torque,” Ben says.

Locke turns it over in his hands. “Why would I need more torque?”

Ben starts to answer, then pauses. “Depends what you’re doing.”

“That is what I asked.”

Ben laughs. “Okay. Fair.”

I wander closer and look at the price tag. “That one costs almost twice as much.”

Locke glances at me. “Does that make it twice as good?”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. Although that would make shopping much easier.”

He turns the drill over again, studying the body, battery, and chuck. “Then I should know what the extra money buys.”

“That,” I say, pointing at him, “is an annoyingly reasonable question.”