The slab came back from grading on a Thursday in March, a ten stamped in the corner, and he did not tear it open in the driveway the way the men in the videos did. He carried it inside, set it on the kitchen table, and looked at it for eleven minutes without sitting down. His wife asked where he was going to put it.

It went into a safe in the basement, in a bank bag, inside a second bag with a desiccant packet he changed every spring. He looked at it maybe twice a year, gloves on, under the workbench lamp. It had graded a ten because he had never once played with it — nine years old, and even then he had known better than to enjoy it.