I scraped the leftover scalloped potatoes into a glass dish, listening to the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the pantry on its new wiring.

Two years of double shifts and sixty-hour weeks sat silent inside those walls, hidden behind fresh plaster and white paint.

Nate walked around the table, gathering up the glass water cups three at a time in his big mechanic’s hands.

He picked up the single page of county paper with the embossed state seal in the top corner and walked across the yellow pine floor to the corner desk, where his grandfather’s brass desk lamp threw a small circle of light on the blotter.

Nate pulled open the top oak drawer.