MY FIRST SLIP:
The torque wrench that screamed flat when the '65 Mustang needed true.
I did not sweep the shards. I poured the seam.
The shop in Whitehall, 1987. Dawn breaking over Lake Michigan. The transmission rebuild lay open on the bench, its gears waiting for the force that would bind them. My wrench slipped—just 0.3 micron—but the fracture sang. I caught the shavings. I baptized them in gold.
This is the gospel of the welder: a scar is not a wound. It is the spine that holds the load.