Back home on our farm, I opened each blade in turn, testing the edges, folding the blades closed, dropping it into my jeans pocket, then taking it back out, turning it over in my hands, hefting its weight. At some point, I must have thought it was unbalanced with just the one scale, so I pried off the remaining side. Then I wrapped the handle with first-aid tape, trimming the gummy white cloth carefully so the blades could pivot in and out. The white tape didn’t add much to the knife’s function or appearance—maybe gave it a little better grip—and didn’t remain white for long. It acquired a gray color like cod skin, then became nearly black with dirt, grease, and whatever sooty grunge adolescent boys have on their fingers.