The vinyl tile adhesive was curing too fast in the hundred-and-seven-degree heat, so we had to roll six floor planks at a time instead of twelve.

Robert Vance leaned over his trowel on the bare concrete floor, his heavy hands resting on his tool belt as he checked our chalk line.

“This air conditioning unit on Thomas Road isn’t pulling its weight, Julian,” Robert said, wiping concrete dust off his forearm with a rag.

“We’re going to lose two hundred dollars in spoiled glue if we don’t speed up.”

“Keep spreading with the notched trowel,” I told him, rubbing my knuckles as I checked the edge of the seam with my utility knife.

“We cut the back doorway section before we break for lunch.”

A sharp metallic rattle cut through the hum of the shop fan outside on the gravel apron.

I stepped into the open roll-up doorway, wiping adhesive off my thumbs with a dry rag.

My seven-year-old son, Noah, was skidding his red bicycle to a stop against the concrete curb, his chest heaving under his sweat-soaked blue shirt.

“Noah, what are you doing here?” I asked, taking two steps out into the sun.

He dropped the bicycle on its side on the hot gravel.

His left knee was scraped raw, a thin line of blood trickling down his shin toward his ankle.

He reached down with both hands, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and twisted the cotton into a tight cord.

“Daddy, Grandma put the lock on and turned the radio up loud so nobody could hear,” Noah shouted, his breathless voice cracking on the last word.

“What radio?” I asked, stepping down the gravel apron toward him.

“The radio in the garage,” Noah said, his eyes wide as he stared at my belt.

“She put Lily inside the big white box and clicked the lock shut.”

Robert dropped his steel trowel on the concrete floor behind me with a heavy clatter.