“Puppy,” she whispers back.

“Be gentle with the puppy.”

Tully gives a rude snort. Perfect opening for her to say something about Igor.

Not a word.

I didn’t know she was scared of heights, a fact I stow away for future reference. As Marigold and Cassie go indoors, Rolf passes me a paint scraper and two sheets of sandpaper. The ladder’s leaning against the wall. I start to climb it, feeling it shift under my weight. I hope I’m not scared of heights.

I wish Tully wasn’t watching.

Old paint’s flaking off the shingles. I start at the top row, counting out twelve shingles, which is as far as I can reach without my ribs screeching in protest. Even though the shingles are smooth, not ridged, the scraper has a mind of its own.

“Not so hard,” Rolf says, “or you’ll cut into the wood.”

You’re clueless, kiddo.

A flake comes off, neat as can be. “That’s better,” he says, and watches for a few more minutes. “Don’t forget to sand the edges ... there’s lots more sandpaper. You need anything, just holler. Otherwise I’ll leave you to it.”

He and Tully head for the front of the house. Through the open window, I can hear Cassie’s and Marigold’s voices. The sun is hot on my back, the wind sighing through the treetops, and right now, all I’m responsible for is a scraper and a few shingles.

*

AN HOUR later Rolf comes back, stationing himself by the ladder and looking over the part I’ve finished. He’s going bald on top.

“Your edges are smooth,” he says, nodding in approval, “and you’re down to bare wood where the paint’s flaked, that’s good.” Real warmth in his voice.

Don’t tell me I’m doing something right for a change.

He hands me a few fresh sheets of sandpaper and a bottle of water, gives the shingles another once-over, then disappears again. I take a swig from the bottle, shove it in my back pocket, and keep going, switching to my left hand because my right arm’s aching, tugging my ball cap around so the brim protects my neck from the sun. Another hour passes. I concentrate on the rows I’ve done, not on how many are left.

I’m into the rhythm of it now, no thought required, just the rasp of the scraper and the rustle of wind through the leaves. At midday, Marigold calls through the window, “Sandwiches made, Brick. Come on in.”

I finish the last two shingles in the row and climb awkwardly down the ladder. My legs feel numb, my shoulders are sore, and I can feel each imprint of Floyd’s fists; but one whole section’s scraped top to bottom. I hope I did an okay job.