Dawn came with the kind of clean, brittle light that makes sawdust look like gold. We were up before it, as if habit had stitched our bodies to the schedule of work: Mark checking the van, I packing sandwiches and a thermos of coffee that never quite tasted right until the second cup. The lot smelled like wet earth and the small cells of a house that wanted to be—plumb lines, corners, promises in two-by-fours.
The crew arrived with the usual mix of jokes and careful competence. Eli moved with a new ease, wrist braced but steady. Rosa, efficient and wry, had a clipboard and a temper that kept men honest. Jonah, the kid who’d wanted to learn how to measure, showed up early with a fresh pencil behind his ear and eyes like a man who found work sacred. They all gathered around Mark like someth
