Bob hadn’t wanted to go into the thrift store.

He’d rather chew drywall than trail behind his wife as she dug through racks of questionable sweaters and forgotten fondue sets. But she had that look, the one that said you’re coming whether you like it or not, so he sighed and followed.

And that’s when it happened.

A faint glow from the back corner caught his eye—like the heavens had opened and a celestial chorus was humming in the key of man. There it was.

The Holy Tool Aisle.

Before him lay a paradise of potential: rusted wrenches, half-functional drills, a socket set missing everything important—but oh, the possibilities! Tools that needed only love, oil, and maybe a tetanus shot. Even a few mystery gadgets whose purpose no mortal man could ever know, but Bob didn’t care. He’d figure it out. He always figured it out.

A single tear welled in his eye as he whispered, “They just need a good home.”

By the time his wife found him, Bob had two of those tiny thrift-store shopping carts—one stacked high, the other rattling along with a broken wheel. But that was fine. He had tools now. He could fix it.

She stared at him, jaw slightly open, the faint scent of disbelief filling the air.

Her lips parted, and she said only one word.

“___”

PS: So … what’s the word?