“What time is it?” he said.

“I’m early,” I told him. “Very early.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Just fine.” I walked inside the room. He was repairing the floor-boards, replacing the rotted pieces with fresh strips of wood. The room was small but held a beautiful backyard view: the red-tipped leaves of rosebushes not far from bloom, beyond the bushes a glimpse of the lake. There was sawdust all over the place. It speckled his dark skin like freckles.

“You do your own gardening as well?”

His eyes followed mine out the back window. “The yard is tiny—mostly the rosebushes. I love the roses. In a week or two, it should fill with flowers.”

“It must be beautiful.”

“It is very beautiful.”

I looked at the repairs he had done. The new strips fit perfectly into the running-board pattern. In the corner of the room was a small TV resting on the floor. The Lakers game was on. Conference play-offs.

I pointed to the TV. “What’s the score?”

“Lakers are up by three, two minutes to go to the end of the second quarter. Lawrence Funderburke just scored off the bench for the Kings. They’ve been trading baskets. It’s going to be close.”

I tapped my foot. “I’m restless. Need any help?”

“If you give me about twenty minutes to clean up this mess, and another twenty minutes to clean up myself, we can do something together.”

“You’ll miss the game then.”

“They will survive without my suggestions.”

“Really, I don’t mind helping out.” I looked at the workbench. “I wouldn’t trust myself with the circular saw, but I can sand with the best of them.”

“You’ve done woodwork before?”

“I used to help my dad out when he did the add-ons. He’s one of those handy guys.” I regarded his repairs with admiration. “Probably not unlike yourself. Are you a perfectionist, too?”

Koby shrugged. “Is there any other way?”

“Now that sounds like my father.” I continued to gaze outside. “I saw my father this morning. I asked him for help on a case, and he came through. It was productive. We got some good information. I would have loved to act on it right away, but I promised him that I’d wait until the lead detective got back from his weekend vacation.”

“Why did you promise to wait?”

“Because technically, it’s his case.” I turned to face him. “There’s this thing in LAPD. You’ve got to follow protocol. I have a little problem with that.”

“It’s a tightrope,” Koby said. “To think independently—but not too independently.”

“That sums it up.”

“It is the same in my field. I am the one to spot the first signs of trouble, but I’m not supposed to act without consultation. I must talk to the doctor; I must talk to the psychologist. I consult with the physical therapist, the occupational therapist, the play therapist, and if the kids are older, the speech therapist, the educational therapist, and the reading therapist. In the end”—he smiled—“I use my own judgment. I was a medic in the army. If it’s an emergency, I do what I have to do.”