ROLF HAS me priming a few bare spots next. Then he hands me a new brush and a gallon can of yellow paint. “I already stirred it,” he says. “Don’t apply it so thick it drips, or so thin you can see the old color underneath. Work the paint into the brush as you go. Where d’you want to start?”

“This side of the house is fine,” I say. It can be seen from the road, but Floyd’s shift won’t end before four.

I’m terrified of spilling the paint—you’re such a loser, kiddo—so it takes me forever to climb the ladder and settle the can on the shelf at the top. I slosh the brush in the paint, scrape it on the edge of the can, and make the first swipe. Paint drips from the bottom edge of the shingles. I try again, forcing myself to calm down.

Eventually I get the knack of how much paint to leave on the brush. Painting feels like a vacation after scraping, and as Outdoor Latex Sunshine Yellow takes over from blah beige, I settle in. Even edging the windows and the door isn’t a problem. First thing you know, I’ve done all the top shingles and go looking for Rolf.

“Tully can do the rest,” he says, surveying the wall and nodding in approval. As Marigold joins us, he says, “Looks some nice, don’t it?”

She gives a sigh of pure pleasure. “I love the color, Rolf. It’s perfect. If we can get the first coat on today, second coat tomorrow, then it can rain from dawn till dusk. We can easily finish the shutters in the garage, and the window trim won’t take long.”

“We still gotta paint the window boxes.”

“Wedgwood blue, like the shutters,” she says dreamily. “I’ll plant them full of petunias.”

As he puts his arm around her shoulders, they smile at each other like they’re the best of friends.

Rolf says, “Okay, Brick—Glenn’s working on the other side of the house. Why don’t you start at the opposite end of the wall from him, so the two of you meet in the middle? Then Marigold and Tully can paint the lower part. I’ll tackle the doors.”

He talks to me like we’re equals. I’d better not get used to it. Or to meals that are put in front of me. I move my stepladder around the house and start painting. At the far corner Glenn has his iPod strapped to his arm, the earpieces in, his brush moving to the music.

Why would I want a fricking iPod?

I start painting. We move our stepladders closer. As he swings his around, it whacks me on the leg. I bang mine against the wall and rush him.