He bounced back out the door and I followed him, Carlotta’s eyes burning my back.

Sam wore a torn T-shirt and carried a paring knife in one hand. The rip of a saw drifted through the trees. “There’s this great guy helping me. He’s a welder. He lives over in Sherwood and works in Portland. He gave me a ride out from town one day and we got to talking. He built his own house.”

Sam pushed through the brush to a clearing and I followed. Rennel sat on a thin log to steady it while my brother sawed one end. They both looked up as we approached.

“Hello, brother,” I said.

“Sally, Christ, don’t you have any shoes?” Spike asked. “Every time I see you, you’re running around with your mud hooks flapping.”

We grinned at each other and Sam and Rennel stared, confused.

“You two know each other?” Sam asked.

“That’s my big brother.”

“But your names…”

“We had different fathers.”

Spike wiped his face with his forearm and went back to sawing. Sam placed the knife down near him and sat in the pine needles beside me. A pile of thin logs was stacked beside Spike. The branches had been stripped and sap oozed out where they’d been cut. The ground was littered with needles and yellow sawdust, and the warm air reeked of sweat and pine. Spike’s work shirt was dark in patches and he’d rolled his sleeves high over his strong freckled forearms. Rennel held the log they were sawing, flexed his arms, and watched Spike curiously.

Sam leaned in close to me and spoke softly. “He’s really a fantastic guy. He knows all about carpentry and machines. He’s got a lot of kids and they’re all pretty nice. He didn’t even graduate from high school, but he’s really sharp!”

I looked sideways at Sam, but he seemed only excited and interested. He was not making fun of me or my brother. “I know.”

“Oh, yeah. What a small place this is. Imagine running into your brother!”

Spike lined the log and measured it against the others. He took up a light ax and stripped off the bark quickly, using the knife around the knots where the branches had been.

Sam whispered, “It’s really exciting watching somebody who knows what they’re doing.”

I nodded gravely. “Yes.”

“It’s like Mr. Sing and his painting. He just goes right in and does it without any palaver.”

“Yeah.”

Spike stacked the stripped logs in a neat pile. They were each six feet long and four or five inches thick. He stood back and looked at the stack, then bent to pick up the saw and the ax.

“That’s got to dry awhile. I’ll come back in a few weeks and show you how to knock it together.”