Garrett raised the axe over his head and lined up the cut he had been chasing for years. His boots sank into the wet ground. The swing came down clean, quiet, and true — the kind of swing he lived for. Then his arm gave out halfway through. The blade thudded into bark and stopped. The tree did not move. Garrett stared at it, breathing hard, and felt the day turn against him. The willow held its ground. Long green ropes of leaves swayed around the trunk like a curtain that had seen this before. His axe stayed buried in the bark, the handle pointing at him in accusation. Garrett pulled the blade free and stepped back. He would not count the days. He would not count the swings. But he would remember this tree, and he would come back tomorrow with the arm that did not fail. He shouldered the axe and walked the long path back to the lumberyard. Stacks of cut logs lined the yard, each one a tree he had beaten before this one. He set the axe against the wall of the worn building and stared at his right arm. The arm had betrayed him on the cleanest cut of his life. Tomorrow he would swing again, and the willow would learn what he was built for.