He answered and continued.

The sound of feet on the stairs joined the sanding, the clink of tools, and a radio playing quietly from the van.

I liked hearing work that had an end.

A door would fit.

A wall would be painted.

A box would be opened and put away.

None of those tasks could make somebody love me more if I performed them perfectly, and none needed to.

My father arrived before lunch with a pair of gardening gloves.