Every time I pulled the flat steel fish tape through the freshly drilled stud holes, its sharp metal edges bit through the tape into my skin.

Nate let go of the drill trigger, and the high whine faded into the quiet wind blowing past the bare windows.

He wiped his wet forehead with the sleeve of his heavy work shirt and sat down right on the dusty pine floorboards.

He reached into his canvas coat pocket, took out a square of aluminum foil, and unfolded it carefully on his lap.

Inside was a cold quarter slice of pumpkin pie in plastic wrap from the diner’s display case.