“Best thing to do is stretch when you get home.”

“Take an Epsom salts bath.”

“Nah. Ibuprofen. A lot of it.”

“You guys are complicating things. You just go home, open the biggest bottle of alcohol you can find, and drink it until you fall asleep.”

“You did good work today, Marta. You, too, Billy,” Silas said.

“Thanks, boss,” Marta said. “And thanks for the opportunity.”

“To a good first day,” he toasted.

“To a good first day,” they all echoed, raising their bottles.

“Wrap up those blisters for tomorrow with some Neosporin, Marta. Keep ’em wrapped and clean, and they’ll callus in no time,” Maggie told her.

“From manicures to calluses,” Marta said wryly, examining the chips in her purple fingernails.

“No reason you can’t have both,” Maggie pointed out.

It was a tough transition for anyone to make from cushy office job to physical labor, Silas knew. But Marta wasn’t complaining. He liked it when people were too busy making things work to feel sorry for themselves.

One by one, the crew members started to pack up and head home. Some to nurse sore body parts. Some to make dinners and check homework. Some to coach soccer or shower for date night.

They all had their own lives and stories, and Silas appreciated that they shared hours of their days with him, with each other. Kinship wasn’t just the name of his home; it was their way of life.

Maggie stood and began collecting the empties. “Thanks for a hell of a first day,” she told them.

Travis scrambled to help. “Hit the bricks, kid,” Silas said, nodding toward the driveway with mock sternness.

“I don’t mind,” he insisted, shooting puppy-dog eyes at Maggie’s retreating back. “I can stay and help clean up.”

“I know for a fact that your mom is expecting you home for your brother’s birthday dinner,” Silas said. “And that you’re the one pickin’ up the cake.”

Travis winced. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

“You can stare at her all day tomorrow,” Silas promised. “Your brother only turns sixteen once.”

With his young charge on his way, Silas gathered the rest of the empties and followed Maggie around the front of the house to the garage.

It was a detached two-bay building with carriage house stylings that needed a little love and a lot of paint.

She hooked an elbow under the lid of the recycling bin and, in a slick move, flipped it up into the air before dumping the bottles inside with a satisfying crash of glass. The economy of her movements intrigued him. It was like watching an athlete perform.

“Hang on,” he called. “Last load.”

She held the lid for him, and he deposited his armful.

“Do you host happy hour at the end of every day?” she asked. “Because I might need a bigger bin.”