The car came out of nowhere. I swerved to miss it, crashing through the neighbor's fence instead. I was only four houses away from home. Four houses away from having my father's truck back safe and sound. All I know is, if I hadn't been distracted by my thoughts at that very moment, I never would have met Saul Leiberman. 

I knew Mr. Leiberman from walking by his house for the last two years, going to and from school. We had never even spoken. Most days, the old man was outside, tending to his yard and flower garden. The same flower's that were currently crushed beneath the tires of my father's beat up, old Chevy. Pieces of the white picket fence I'd busted through were scattered all around. I could tell this didn't make the old man happy as he came rushing out the front door, his face red and eyes all squinty. 

Age spots dotted his bald head. His long, pointed nose, turned down into a white mustache and goatee that matched his bushy eyebrows. His dark brown eyes were brimming with anger. He was gesturing and speaking in a different language. As he got closer, he switched to English. 

“My flowers! I work so hard! I know you! You're Nascha Hatahle, Shilah Hatahle's boy. You too young to drive. How old are you?” 

“My name is Nash,” I snapped back without thinking. (I didn't like being called by my full name.) I thought for a second of lying about my age and decided against it. “I'm fourteen.” 

“Just as I thought! Step out. Let me look at you.” 

I stepped out of the truck. I stood a good foot taller than the old man. His lean, slightly stooped frame was a contrast to my strong, broad shoulders. Mr. Leiberman seemed to be taking everything in. Everything from my black t-shirt to my jeans with the holes in the knees. He glanced down at my dirty, worn out sneakers. The look I usually get for being a Native American teenager was missing from the old man's face. After the initial once-over, he seemed to be searching deeper than outward appearances. 

“What you plan to do now kid?” 

I hung my head. My long black hair fell into my face, despite the bandanna around my forehead. “I can't afford to fix your fence, Mr. Leiberman. I'm sorry.” 

“Being sorry no good. You fix.” 

“I don't know how,” I replied. 

“A boy your age? Don't know how to repair a fence or plant flowers? Time to learn then. Come tomorrow morning, seven a.m. We start then.” 

“Seven a.m.!” Summer just started! This crazy old man thought I was going to get up that early? “No way!” 

“Okay then. I call police. They take care of it. You have license?” 

My shoulders slumped. I knew I was stuck. My father would kill me for sure if the police got involved. I hadn't exactly asked to borrow his truck. 

I reluctantly agreed to come first thing in the morning. Sulking, I backed my father's rust bucket out of Mr. Leiberman's yard and headed home. 

Mr. Leiberman had the garage door open and was already working away on something when I rode my skateboard up the next day. There was a small table with a saw on it. The old man was using it to cut lengths of wood. 

“Two minutes late,” he spoke as he shut the machine off, the saw slowly winding down. 

I just shrugged. I didn't want to be here at all. Thankfully, my father hadn't noticed the small scratch and half-dollar sized dent in the truck. It had blended right in with all the other dents and scratches. I couldn't risk Mr. Leiberman turning me in though. Then I'd be in trouble with my father and the law. 

“You know how to use one of these, right?” The old man was holding a push broom towards me. I took it and started sweeping up the wood shavings that covered the cement floor. The old man went to another table and began taking measurements of different pieces of wood. 

We didn't speak much as the day wore on. It turned out, I was glad we had started so early. By eleven o'clock, the Arizona heat was already turning the small garage into an oven. 

Mr. Leiberman had salvaged what wood he could from the broken fence. The old man also happened to have some spare wood from when he built the fence. He was using that for the rest of the repairs. 

He wouldn't let me run the saw, so I was stuck sweeping and bringing him tools. He explained things as he went along. He said that we would have to paint the posts white to match the rest of the fence. We would do that before setting the posts. It would be easier and look neater. 

At straight up noon, Mr. Leiberman sent me home. He said it was lunch time, and not much more could be done in the heat. 

“Tomorrow, same time.” 

I sighed and agreed before taking off for home. Half the day gone. What a drag. 

The next day was a little better.

Mr. Leiberman explained how he'd made the posts extra long, as they had to go two feet into the ground, to make them more stable. 

“Won't hold up against a truck, though,” he said with a wink. It was good he could joke about it. 

All the posts and two by fours were ready to go from the day before, so we began making the pickets. A different tool was used to shape the tops. It was called a router. It was kind of neat watching Mr. Leiberman round the tops of the pickets. I hadn't given one thought to the hard work that went into making a fence. It had only taken a second to destroy it. 

Again, at straight up noon, Mr. Leiberman called it a day. This time he invited me in for a sandwich and some lemonade. My stomach growled at the mere mention of food. My mouth was so dry it was hard to swallow. 

The blast of cool air when we entered the house felt good on my skin. The sweat on the back of my shirt cooled instantly. Mr. Leiberman poured us both a glass of lemonade. He sent me into the dining room to wait while he made the sandwiches. Sipping the tangy, sweet drink, I found myself wandering a bit, curious as to how the old man lived. The dining room opened right up into the living area. The furnishings were sparse and worn, but the whole house was clean. So different from my own run down, messy heap. 

 A picture on an end table drew my attention. It was a photo of a young girl with short, dark hair. She must have been seven or eight years old. I thought maybe it was Mr. Leiberman's daughter, but then the picture was black and white and very old. Next to the picture frame was a small red flower. I touched it carefully, surprised to find that the cool, silky petals were real. 

“Come and eat.” Mr. Leiberman was in the doorway holding two plates with sandwiches. He had a stern look on his face. I followed him back into the dining room. I hoped the old man wasn't mad at me for snooping around. We ate in silence for a minute or two before I got up the nerve to ask about the picture. Mr. Leiberman's face closed up like a clam, making me wish I hadn't asked. 

“That is not your business, son. Come back tomorrow. We'll work some more,” and with that, Mr. Leiberman picked up his plate, rinsed it, and set it next to the sink. 

“But tomorrow is Saturday!” Surely the old man didn't expect me to work on weekends too! 

Mr. Leiberman seemed confused for a minute. “I'll see you first thing on Monday then. Don't be late.” 

I rinsed my plate and set it next to Mr. Leiberman's before heading out the door for home.