Garrett was nine years old in a yellow plastic hard hat that slid down over his ears, holding a toy shovel next to my steel-toed boots.

The door frame creaked, and Frank Doyle came into the room with a ceramic mug of hot tea.

He didn’t sit down, just stood at the edge of the rug with his hands in his coat pockets.

“The board signed the full operational reinstatement twenty minutes ago,” Frank said quietly.

“The twelve-million-dollar contract stays with Callahan Construction.”

“Thanks, Frank,” I said.

Frank tapped his wooden pen against a button on his coat and looked down at his own shoes for a long moment.