Arthur sat at the kitchen table with his morning mug, his fingers curled around the warm clay. When he set it down to reach for his toast, a thin smear of wet blood glistened against the white glaze of the rim. I stopped with the butter knife in my hand, the cold kitchen air suddenly heavy.

“Arthur, let me see,” I said, stepping closer to his chair.

He rubbed his lower jaw with his knuckle and looked up, his eyes slightly clouded. When he parted his lips to speak, his front teeth were ringed with pink.

“It is just a little sore,” he said.

I touched my silver wedding band, spinning it slowly around my finger. I had spent forty-nine years watching this man shape raw oak and walnut, but lately his strength seemed to be slipping away in quiet, frightening increments. Our golden anniversary was only three months away, and a cold question had begun to keep me awake at night.

Would Arthur lose his mind completely before we could celebrate that day?

“You need to rinse,” I said, setting a glass of water near his plate.

At ten o’clock, the brass workshop key was cold against my palm as I unlocked the heavy oak door of his backyard shed. Arthur followed me inside, the familiar scent of cedar oil and fresh pine shavings wrapping around us like an old coat.

He went straight to his workbench, his hands hovering over the wooden tool racks he had built himself.

“I cannot find the flat one,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Your three-quarter inch chisel?” I asked, pointing to the empty leather sleeve.

His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths as he began pulling drawers open, spilling brass screws and small hinges onto the sawdust. His hands shook as he swept his palm across the workbench, searching for a tool whose name he had suddenly lost.

“The sharp one,” he muttered, his face turning red. “The one with the cherry handle.”

“It is right here in my drawer, Arthur,” I said, picking it up from where he had mislaid it.