His attention returned to the task at hand. He’d made some slow, methodical progress, she noted. His patience had him making steadier gains than she would have. She’d been known to get frustrated with decades-old glue and take a belt sander to entire walls.

“Good. Hey,” she said casually as she shifted to dig her phone out of her pocket, “the lighting’s pretty good in here. Mind taking a picture of my gross toe so I can post it?”

If the kid thought it was a weird request—and who wouldn’t think it was weird?—he didn’t say anything. Instead he took the phone, tapped the screen a few times, and angled the lens this way and that.

“That work?” he asked, handing it back.

She glanced at the screen and felt the urge to do her “I was right” dance. But it would only further anger her toe. “Yeah. That works.”

He’d screwed up, showed up when he said he would, accepted a half-assed punishment without complaint, and was doing a decent job. It made the decision an easy one in her mind.

“Dean!” she shouted in the direction of the hall.

“What do you want, woman?” he hollered back.

“Can you come down here?”

He came down the stairs grumbling. “What’s your problem, Magpie?”

She handed him her phone.

“Gross. But great shot,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “Cody took it.”

He looked up at the kid. “Are you into photography?”

“I guess.”

“I scrolled through his Instagram account last night,” she told Dean. “He’s good.”

He managed to look both suspicious and hopeful. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Maggie turned back to Cody. “How would you like a job?”

Cody dropped the steamer to his side. “I have one,” he said slowly. Then his lips quirked. “It doesn’t involve wallpaper.”

She grinned. “Wallpaper removal sucks. What do you do?”

“I work a couple nights a week at a gas station in town.” He said it while looking her in the eye, as if daring her to judge.

She nodded instead. “Must make you tired for school,” she mused.

He gave a jerky, one-shoulder shrug, as if it didn’t really matter.

“Dean and I could use some help around here. After school. On the weekends. Not construction,” she clarified. “Pays fifteen dollars an hour to start. You’d be helping out with the technical stuff. Videos, photos, social media posts. Maybe some editing.”

She saw the hunger, the hope when she named the pay. It made her feel impossibly sad for the boy already used to not belonging. But she could do this for him. And while it would cost her a little, it would be worth far more.

“We’ll be in town at least three months,” she told him.

“Probably closer to five,” Dean cut in.