“Hold still.”
William held still for a little while.
His mother sat by the window with his sleeve gathered in her lap. He was still wearing the shirt. Taking it off had seemed unnecessary until the repair began to take so long.
“Can you not pull it tighter?”
“Would you like to bend your arm afterwards?”
He bent it to demonstrate.
“William.”
He stopped.
She pushed the needle through a part of the cloth that had not yet worn thin. The thread followed with a faint dry sound. He watched it disappear and return.
“Why there?”
“Because the tear isn’t strong enough to hold itself.”
She tied the thread off and tested the seam between her fingers. Then she let him go.
Years later, he sat in a rented room with a split strap across his knee.
His first stitch pulled through. He looked at the little slit it had left, set the work down, and rubbed his eyes.
Outside, someone argued over the price of a horse. The argument moved down the street and faded.
William unpicked the failed stitches.
He began again farther from the edge. Slowly this time, keeping the tension even. When he finished, he bent the strap, pulled against it, and bent it again.
It held.
He cleaned the needle before putting it away. It was small enough to lose in the lining of his coat and worth less than almost anything else he carried.
He checked the fold twice before fastening the pocket.
