Tyler stood awkwardly on the porch.
Emma looked at him for a long moment.
Then she said, “You can carry the heavy box.”
His face brightened with relief.
“Okay.”
Noah handed him a dust cloth.
“And you have to clean the dinosaur shelf.”
“There’s a dinosaur shelf?”
“There will be.”
Tyler nodded solemnly. “Fair.”
It was not instant friendship. Life is kinder than that. It gives people work to do.
By April, the walls were painted warm cream. The shutters were fixed. The cracked window was replaced. Dad built low shelves in the main room, sanding every edge smooth because, he said, “Kids run their hands over everything.” Noah supervised with his compass and a pencil behind his ear.
My mother did not come.
She wrote letters.
Not often. Not dramatically. Some were better than others. A few I put away unread because they carried the old scent of defense. But some were different.
