Carlo Montoya thought he had reached bottom, thought he had fallen so low he lay well beneath the limits of further humiliation.  He was wrong.

The bright morning sun glinting off the Columbia river in the distance, the blooming buttercups in the meadow behind him, and the prospect of a few dollars in his pocket should have cheered Carlo.  It didn't.

He eyed the old outhouse in front of him.  The original owner of this property had obviously taken great pride in his outbuildings. Over a hundred years old, this one had been constructed of thick, hand-planed planks fitted tightly, and it was supported by a mortared stone foundation.  So well had it been constructed, it outlasted its builder by seventy years.  Carlo's job was to tear it down.  

I should be grateful, he thought.  It hasn't been used in so long, the stink has subsided. He sighed and dropped his tool pouch next to his feet.  He hadn't always been a handyman, doing odd jobs just to survive.  For thirty years he had labored over a workbench with wood, glue, and varnish, building custom, hand fitted violins.  Like most luthiers, Carlo had hoped to someday build not just a good instrument, but a one-in-ten-thousand, great violin.  

That never happened.

Ten years ago the acclaimed violinist, Porfino, had asked Carlo to build him a practice fiddle and Carlo had viewed the commission as a great opportunity.  He spent weeks shaping the best woods available into an instrument of profound beauty and delicate sound.  When Porfino took delivery, he put the fiddle to his chin, set the bow to string, and began to play.