“Who did the framing?”

“Nate did,” I said.

Judy walked straight through the hall into the living room, her small shoes clicking on the pine floorboards Nate had sanded smooth down to the bare grain.

She reached out and flipped the brass wall switch by the archway.

The four-bulb ceiling fixture came on instantly, throwing soft yellow light across the smooth plaster walls where five layers of faded wallpaper used to hang.

“The wiring in these old farmhouses is usually dry-rotted knob and tube,” Ron said, stepping into the room and staring up at the access panel for the new breaker box in the corner.