An American handed me his phone and said, "Find the tree guy." I asked the tree guy's name. He did not know it. He did not need to. The tree guy was saved as Rick Trees. So I scrolled. Under R alone: Ron Gutters. Rosa Cleaning. Ray Well Pump. Randy Deer, who is the man who processes deer, not a deer. And one contact saved as "Russ (DO NOT LEND LADDER)." Nobody told me the story behind Russ. I did not ask. Some files stay sealed. I tried to count the whole phone and lost track somewhere in the D's around "Don Floor & Debris." It was past sixty. On the drive home it hit me, and it has not let go. About seven hundred years ago in England there was a man named John who worked iron. The village had too many Johns, so he became John the smith. Then John Smith. Then his kids were Smiths whether they ever touched a hammer or not. Miller ran the mill. Taylor held the needle. Baker. Carter. Cooper. Fisher. Half the names on any Little League roster started out as somebody's contact. Nobody hears them as jobs anymore. They turned into families. Which means it is happening again, right now, in this man's phone. Rick Trees is not a contact. Rick Trees is generation one. Somewhere around the year 2700 there will be a girl named Kaylee Trees who has never held a chainsaw, and she will have no idea her name began with a man who showed up on a Saturday, dropped a forty-foot oak exactly where he said it would land, and would only take cash. I told Tony all of this. He listened to the whole thing, then showed me how he has me saved. Nobu Strong. I have a surname. Seven hundred years from now there may be a family called Strong that does not know where it came from. I know. It was a sofa, and then a fridge.