Nate pulled the iron ring on the cellar door and leaned the heavy oak planks back against the kitchen wall.

I stood on the top step holding the flashlights steady while he went down the narrow wooden steps into the dark, damp air.

“Watch the third step,” he called up.

“The riser is rotten.”

I pointed the yellow beam at his shoulders as he reached the bottom and walked over to the gray steel box mounted on the stone wall.

He reached up with two fingers and unscrewed the black glass plug in the top socket of the main fuse block.