Art’s POV
Rain left the courtyard fence leaning against the brick. Martha’s husband built it a decade ago, and the bottom planks have been rotting ever since. She’s out here now, gripping a hammer that’s too heavy for her wrists, trying to coax a warped board back into place.
I take the hammer from her before she drops it.
“I’ve got it, Martha.”
She squints up at me, her gray hair damp from the drizzle. “You’re too big for this courtyard, Arthur. You’ll take up all the sunlight.”
“He’s useful, though,” Soren says, already kneeling in the mud with a handful of galvanized screws. He grins at her. “Besides, we like the exercise.”
Draven is wrestling a two-by-four near the gate. “This wood is garbage,” he announces. “Who builds a fence out of wet cardboard?”
“My late husband,” Mar
