Mateo worked nights at a repair shop, replacing screens and coaxing dead laptops back into life. He owned one socket set—scuffed, incomplete—and kept it in a battered metal box with a name tag: L. Santos. His uncle Leon had been a traveling mechanic. People in the neighborhood still told stories about him; some said he could quiet a coughing engine with a single adjustment and a quiet word. When Leon died, the tools were auctioned off. Mateo never found his old collection—only this file, sent anonymously to his uncle’s email months after the funeral.