He’d spent three summers teaching me how to look after every joist, rafter, and stud before he died in 2012.

Over by the water heater stood Arthur’s old oak workbench, its heavy top still marked with oil stains and an iron vise bolted to the corner rail.

Now the workbench was buried under Vance’s dusty power tools, half-empty paint cans, and broken plastic lawn chairs.

I turned the ring on my thumb as I looked over the piles of household junk crowding what had once been my refuge.

I unzipped my garbage bag, took out my dress uniform jacket, and hung it carefully on a clean brass nail driven into the bare pine joist.