Lazy flecks of dust hover in sunbeams that filter through paint stained windows. The warm, thick smells of wood chips and beeswax seem to physically displace the air. He opens the small, yellowing box, and the tangy scent of rusty nails brings an acrid wetness to your mouth. He crouches, his wide back to you, and waves you around as he glances back over his shoulder.

"Here--Would ya' gimmie uh hand with this?"