Stacey watches her go. "So. We need a bed. And apparently we need it by tonight. Where exactly are we going to find a custom bed in..." she checks her phone, "eight hours?"
Sergio's already dialing. "I know a guy. Tom. Custom furniture. He owes me a favor."
"Does he owe you a build-a-massive-bed-in-one-day favor?"
"We're about to find out."
Nacho's truck pulls into a parking lot outside a warehouse. The sign reads "Timber & Stone Custom Furniture."
Tom meets us at the door. He's in his fifties, built like someone who works with his hands, smelling like sawdust and coffee.
Tom clasps hands with Sergio. "Sergio. What can I do for you?"
"We need a bed. Twelve feet wide, eight feet long. And we need it tonight."
Tom laughs. Then stops when he realizes no one else is laughing. "You're serious."
"We're bonding tonight. We need a bed for after."
Tom looks at all of us. "Tonight. You want me to build a custom bed in less than eight hours."
Sergio nods at his brothers. "We'll help. Four extra sets of hands. You supply materials and expertise. We supply labor."
Tom studies us for a long moment. Then he grins. "My daughter bonded to a pack last year. I built them a bed. Took me two weeks." He pauses. "But I was alone. With five people..." He pulls out his phone. "I'm calling my guys. We'll need six people minimum to pull this off."
"We'll pay triple your usual rate."
Tom starts pulling lumber from racks. "Damn right you will. You want the impossible, you pay for the impossible. Let's build you a bed."
What follows is controlled chaos.
Tom's two guys arrive within an hour. Both built like lumberjacks, smelling like pine and determination. They assess the situation, nod once, get to work.
The warehouse fills with the sound of saws and drills. Measurements called out. Wood cut to precise lengths. The brothers move around each other like they've done this before, anticipating needs, passing tools.
I watch Sergio mark measurements with steady hands. Pedro handles corner joints with surgeon precision. Carlos sweet-talks a wood planer. Nacho cuts slats with mechanical efficiency.
Stacey sits on a workbench, legs swinging, eating an apple she found somewhere. "This is the weirdest pre-bonding activity I've ever witnessed."
"You've witnessed other bondings?"
"One. Very dramatic. Someone fainted. This is better though. More wholesome. Less public biting."
"There will be biting later."
Stacey takes another bite of apple. "I'm aware. Trying not to think about it. So what happens after the bed is done?"
"We go home. We bond."
She's quiet for a moment, watching the brothers work. "You're really sure? All four of them?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
Stacey grins. "Good. Because they're all looking at you like you're made of sunshine and they've been living in the dark."
She's right. Every few minutes, one of them glances my way. Sergio meets my eyes over lumber. Carlos flashes a smile while covered in sawdust. Pedro's steady doctor gaze checks in. Nacho watches from the saw, silent but present.
They're building me a bed because I decided, on a whim, in a mattress store, that tonight was the night. And they didn't question it. Just found a solution and got to work.
