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Gallagher had grown up on a farm, the youngest of eight children, all of whom, with the exception of Walt, were girls. Walt’s father, in turn, had been one of seven children. Walt’s grandfather had fled Ireland with his two half-brothers at the peak of the potato famine in the middle part of the prior century and had settled in Clark County. There were Gallaghers spread throughout Central Indiana. Walt, it seemed, had more relatives than he could possibly count.
    With little interest, and even less aptitude, for farming, Walt had come to work at Dahlgren’s when he was not much older than Jon was now. That was almost twenty years ago. He’d never married, had never been outside the state of Indiana, and, near as Jon could tell, had no regrets.
    The small bell on the front door tinkled, and a stooped, white-haired man entered.
    Walt looked at Jon and winked. “Good morning, Mr. Hardisty,” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
    “Eh?” said the man, shuffling over to the counter. “Eh?”
    Walt waved a hand in greeting and repeated, “Good morning!”
    “Good morning to you, Walt,” Mr. Hardisty said in response. Then he turned to Jon and observed casually, “I’m deaf as a goddamn post.”
    Jon had no idea how to respond to that, so he simply smiled.
    The man fished around in a canvas sack he was carrying, and, after a moment, produced a flashlight that, with slightly shaking hands, he placed on the counter. “Can’t get this goddamn thing to work,” he announced.
    “Maybe it needs new batteries,” Walt said.
    “Eh?”
    “Batteries,” Walt repeated.
    “Batteries. Yes. Just put a whole new set in. Didn’t help.”
    Walt picked up the flashlight and clicked the on/off button. Sure enough, nothing happened. He unscrewed the back and allowed three dry cell batteries to slide out onto the counter. He and Jon leaned over and looked at them, then at each other. Walt cocked an eyebrow. Slowly, Jon reached out, gripped the middle battery between thumb and forefinger, and deliberately turned it around. He then looked back at Walt and cocked his own eyebrow.
    Walt nodded, then slid the three batteries back into the case and re-screwed the end piece. This time, when he clicked the button, the light came on.
    “That’s it. By God, you fixed it,” exclaimed Mr. Hardisty, looking at Jon.
    “Actually, all I did was…”
    “You’re a goddamn genius.” He looked at Walt. “He’s a goddamn genius.”
    “Yep,” Walt said, agreeably. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
    “Eh?”
    “You know who he is?” Walt repeated.
    “Who?”
    “This is Ernie Wilson’s grandson.”
    “Ernie Wilson? Well that explains it,” Mr. Hardisty said, reaching out a palsied hand and patting Jon on the shoulder. “Ernie was a goddamn genius. And you’re a goddamn genius.”
    The man turned to Walt. “What do I owe you?”
    Walt raised both hands and shook them. “No charge today, Mr. Hardisty.”
    “Eh? No charge? Well that’s damned nice of you, Walt. You’re a goddamn nice guy.” He carefully put the flashlight back in his sack and started slowly for the front door. “And he’s a goddamn genius,” he said, waiving in Jon’s direction. “A goddamn genius.”
    When the man was gone, Walt and Jon burst into laughter.
    “You’re a goddamn genius,” Walt cried out in a passable mimic of the old man.
    Jon shrugged in an elaborate show of modesty. “I do what I can.”
    #
    At quitting time, Mr. Dahlgren descended the stairs with two envelopes in his hand. When Walt saw him, he jumped off the stool and said, “Hot diggidy dog. All this fun, and we get paid too.”
    Jon was too embarrassed to count the money in front of Mr. Dahlgren, so he simply said thanks and put the envelope in his pocket. He bid Walt and Mr. Dahlgren good evening, promised to see them on Monday morning, and walked home without touching the thing, nevertheless aware at every moment of its presence. As soon as he was in his room, he pulled it