“Victoria lock you out of the lake house?”

“She changed the deadbolt,” I said, dropping my canvas bag on the floorboards.

“I need somewhere to stay tonight.”

Frank got up and went to the tall metal supply closet, pulling out a folding canvas cot and a heavy green wool blanket.

“Your dad kept this in here for late concrete pours.”

He unfolded the metal legs against the wooden floor with a dull clang.

Frank pointed to a dusty framed photograph on the wall of Walter standing beside a yellow excavator in 1994.