I first knew that my father was special when he told me that were were diamonds on the tips of his saw bade. Diamonds? I was still young enough for material things to hold sacred status, and diamonds topped the list. Rare, precious, the grandest thing I could imagine for luxury, trapping rainbows in their myriad faces, making men covet and women weep (though why they wept I wasn't quite sure yet). And my father, unbelievably to me, kept dozens of them in the garage, glinting in the yellow phosphorescent light and sharper than rows of shark teeth, all studding the blade of his whirring saw. With them he could cut into the hearts of oak and pine like a hot knife through butter.