On Sunday morning, I asked Dad to come for a drive.

“Where to?”

“Just come, Dad.”

He grumbled. But he got in the truck. His truck.

When I turned onto Factory Road, he went quiet. When I stopped at the big iron gates of the Works, he frowned.

“What are we doing here, son? It's locked up.”

I got out. I took a set of keys out of my pocket. I unlocked the chain, and swung the big gates open.

Dad stared at me.

“How’d you get those keys?”

“Come inside, Dad.”

I walked him across the empty floor, through the gold stripes of light, all the way to the end. To his bench.

He saw it. He stopped.

He reached out and touched the carving. R.H. 1984.

“How…” he said. His voice cracked. “Wyatt. How did you get in here?”

“I bought it, Dad.”

He turned and looked at me.

“I bought the Works,” I said. “Harlan & Co. That's my company. Three hundred people in North Carolina. Sixty million dollars a year. And we're going to open this place back up.” My dad looked at me for a long, long moment.

Then his knees went, and he sat down hard on his old stool.

And he put his face in his big hands, and he cried.