Chapter 7: The Ladder

Curtis's truck had been gone from my lane for two days, and the youngest's whisper had not left with it.

A printout with my parcel number on it, in Dina's purse, and a phone call every night.

I had spent Sunday on the porch step with my notebook, writing down every question I could think of and every person who might answer one.

On Monday morning, Jed handed me a hammer and pointed at the porch.

"You'll think better with your hands busy," he said.

"I'm thinking about a printout."

"Then think about it on the ladder."

"You said you wanted to fix this place with your own hands."

"I said that in my head."

"Then your head's going to need to learn to climb a ladder."

I climbed it.

The porch roof had come down in one corner, and the framing left standing was cracked and gray.

Jed worked above me, bracing each rafter.

I handed up boards from the ladder and tried not to look down.

He talked me through every nail.

"Hold it flat. Nail goes at an angle. Not that one. That one."

"Is there a version where I don't hit my thumb?"

"There's a version where you hit it less."

I hit it.

I swore, loudly and creatively, and I swung my arm back to shake the pain out.

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