“The ridge beam hasn’t shifted an eighth of an inch in eighty years,” Nate said, tapping his knuckle on the bare stud.

“Whoever framed this house knew what a plumb line was for.”

“How much wire is left on the big spool in the kitchen?” I asked.

“Sixty feet,” he said.

“Enough for the ceiling fixtures in the dining room and the porch light outside, and then we’re done buying copper.”

He leaned his wooden stepladder against the brick chimney and looked down at the gray mountain of plaster dust around my work boots.

His fingernails were black with grease from his regular shift at the diesel shop, but his knuckles were pale gray where the dry lime dust had settled into the cracks in his skin.