The smell of fresh-cut lumber and wet concrete had become the scent of our days. It was ordinary now—the way Mark left for a job before dawn and came home with a dust-line on his jeans and a story lodged in the corner of his mouth. It was ordinary in the way that makes the world seem stitched back together: you do the work, you pay the bills, you sleep, you get up and do it again. The small business—Thompson & Carter: Carpentry & Maintenance—had a tiny logo on the side of the van, and every time Mark parked it, I felt a little thrill of private pride like a secret badge.
So when the town council awarded us the bid to refurbish the community center’s worn porch and replace a sagging ramp, it felt like the first exhale after a long run. The councilman’s handshake had a kind, “we’re glad you
