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cushion of investments that meant I didn’t have to hustle so hard between assignments. I was happy enough, I suppose, though sometimes I missed those crazy junklet days.
    I was doing a lot of stuff based on natural forms and landscapes then, getting my reference photos on nature hikes, and I didn’t see Carl very often. We always exchanged Christmas cards, though. Then one day I got a phone message from him: would I please come out to the yard, as soon as possible?
    “Glad you could make it,” he said as I walked up his porch steps the next day. He was sitting on a battered wire milk crate, looking like a broken gray umbrella. His health had been poor for months, though he rarely complained.
    “No problem,” I said. “How did you get my number?” He’d never called before.
    “It was on your checks. Listen, I know this is going to seem strange, but I found this at the bottom of a coffee can full of bolts and somehow I just knew it belongs to you.” He held out a small metallic object.
    It was a key, a scarred brass thing, one of those ones that’s the same on both sides. Smaller than a car key, bigger than a suitcase key. “I don’t recognize it.”
    “You’re sure? I don’t get these feelings often, and when I do they’re usually right.”
    “I’m pretty sure. Sorry.”
    “Well, keep it anyway. Memento of an old man’s folly. Sorry I dragged you out here for nothing.”
    “That’s OK, I was thinking of coming out for a visit anyway.” We spent a pleasant hour on the porch, watching the leaves fall and talking about contact lenses, fast food, and the weather. Then I bought some flowerpots and went home.
    Two weeks later I got a call from Laurel Hernandez, Carl’s lawyer. Carl had died in his sleep, at the age of 78, and I was mentioned in his will. The funeral was Tuesday; the will would be read the next week.
    I met dozens of people at the funeral, all of whom Carl had touched in some significant way. A woman for whom Carl had found a vibrating chair that was the only thing that made her bad back tolerable. A man who had kept a fleet of delivery trucks going with spare parts from Carl’s yard. A family that had rebuilt a shoddy old house into a showplace, using materials and fixtures provided by Carl, and helped to revitalize their whole neighborhood. We spent the afternoon swapping Carl stories; it was a sad occasion, but not somber.
    The will reading was a lot less crowded. There was me, and Ms. Hernandez, and a clerk, and a couple of cousins. The cousins got the investments, which were not trivial. I got the junkyard.
    I told Ms. Hernandez I needed a couple of days to think about my options. But I was only halfway down the stairs from her office when I realized I already knew exactly what to do. I sat down right there on the steps and cried, overwhelmed by the generosity of Carl’s final gift.
    Ms. Hernandez drove me out to the yard after the transfer of title, a complicated ceremony involving the signing of more papers than I’d ever seen in my life. “Are you sure you don’t want me to find a management company to run the business for you?” she asked as we got out of the car.
    “I’m sure. I plan to keep on as a contract artist part-time, at least for a while, but this is what I want to do. Where I want to be. However, I’d appreciate the services of an experienced business lawyer.”
    “I would be happy to help.”
    The gate was padlocked. I’d never seen it padlocked before.
    I stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do, and then I put my hands in my jacket pockets and felt something hard. It was the key Carl had given me the last time I saw him, which was also the last time I’d worn that jacket.
    On impulse, I tried it in the padlock.
    It worked.
    We got inside and wandered around the yard. Ms. Hernandez didn’t seem to think it was odd that I had a key to the gate, and I decided not to mention the circumstances under which I’d acquired it.
    We paused before a rank of