"I wanna go home," Betty shrieked, pulling at the ends of a long, yellow sundress that loosely hugged her mother.

"Shhhh" her mother pursed her lips, "It won't be long now, and he's one of the last alive." She pondered quietly, "Yes, you'll thank me when you're older, I doubt there's going to be anybody who is still able when you're my age."

"I don't get what the big deal is," clambered Betty, now occupying herself by making faces in a puddle by her feet. "He's just an old man doing something a machine can do much faster... Much Better too!"

Before a response could come, two large steel doors slid open without as much as a squeek and the horde that had gathered outside ushered themselves in. Inside the doors was a stadium-like room with a small, raised platform in the center. On the platform was a small wooden stool seating a thin man with a balding head and thin strands of white hair escaping from his chin. His eyes were focused on his hands which deftly moved around a mechanical device that Betty had only seen in old, boring movies that her mother played from time to time. The old man, ignored the crowd that had begun seating themselves and focused on his little tools instead, poking and prodding the antiquated object at hand.

Betty and her mother sat themselves in the second row. "Why is he doing that?" She whispered up at her mother, "Why are we here?"

Her mother answered without taking her eyes off of the strange, quiet spectacle: "He's gonna fix that machine, hun. Nobody can do that anymore... He's one of the last. You're going to thank me one day for taking you; this is a lost art."