I went to Home Depot to replace a single stripped bolt on my deck swing. A Japanese man does not ask for directions when an aisle is clearly labeled with numbers. After thirty-five minutes of wandering through an infinite canyon of 2x4 lumber and Makita drills, I was spiritually defeated. I was holding the damaged bolt against my chest like a dying sparrow. An older employee named Bob—built like a grizzly bear in a faded orange apron, holding a half-empty Dunkin cup—spotted me staring blankly at a wall of 8,000 plastic drawers. "What are we fixing, Chief?" I opened my palm, presenting the oxidized, decapitated fragment of steel. "I seek the true brother of this metal," I said. Bob took the broken bolt. He didn’t reach for a sizing gauge. He didn’t scan a barcode. He rolled it between two calloused thumb pads, brought it to his nose, and took one solemn sniff. "Five-sixteenths coarse thread. Grade 8 hardened steel. Zinc-plated. Aisle 14, bay 4, bottom drawer on the left." He turned and began marching. I followed three paces behind like an apprentice following a master swordsmith. He marched 150 yards without checking a single aisle sign. He stopped, reached his thick hand into the exact drawer without looking down, and dropped two gleaming bolts into my palm. "Take two. You’re gonna drop one in the mulch." I bowed slightly and began crafting an elaborate explanation of my gratitude in broken English. Bob gave a slow nod, took a sip of his coffee, and tapped his clipboard once. "Build it strong, Samurai." Home Depot does not sell hardware. It employs ancient wizards who restore men’s pride forty-five cents at a time.