Nora pressed the hot iron to the seam and watched the solder bead up wrong again. The joint cooled gray and brittle. She tapped the frame, and one corner popped loose. Three lanterns sat broken on her bench, each one meant for her mother. She set the iron down and stared at her hands. She would not quit. She just needed the seams to hold. She pulled her mother's copper-bound notebook close and turned to the soldering pages. The handwriting slanted across stained paper, and a thin copper wire marked the spot. Nora read the formula twice. Heat the metal, not the solder. She tried again. The bead pooled, then cracked. Her mother had figured this out alone. Nora pressed her thumb against the cooling joint and felt it give. She closed the notebook. Through her window, smoke rose from the rugged metalworking shop down the way, where hammering rang out all morning. Nora wrapped the broken frame in cloth and stepped outside. For the first time, she was going to ask.