"Frank, she doesn't—" Ben started from the ridge.
"She’s got hands, doesn't she?" Frank interrupted. "Get to it, Olivia. Don't be precious."
"I don't know how," I admitted.
"Then watch and learn." Frank climbed down the ladder and headed toward the first window opening. "Come on."
I followed. He showed me once: measure, cut, staple from top to bottom, keep it tight. His movements were efficient, zero wasted motion. When he finished the first opening, he handed me the staple gun.
"Go for it. Don't overthink it."
Then he climbed back up to the roof, and I was alone with the plastic sheeting and the job.
The first window I did was massive, twelve feet across. I measured, scored the industrial plastic with the knife, and pulled. It separated with a satisfying rip.
The sheet was heavy, catching the wind like a sail. I grabbed strips of lath and the pneumatic staple gun, the orange air hose trailing behind me like a snake. The gun had a violent kick that vibrated through my shoulder.Thwack. Thwack. I stapled through the lath into the frame, pinning the plastic down so the wind wouldn't shred it.
Above me, the crew was moving fast. I kept hearing boots on plywood, the rapid-fire pop of staplers, Ben's voice calling measurements. I could smell the storm coming, that metallic scent of snow getting stronger by the minute.
By the fourth window, my hands were cramping. I wiped dirt from my forehead and looked out through the translucent plastic. A single fat snowflake drifted through the air inside the frame, landing on the plywood and vanishing.
Then three more.
"That's it!" Frank’s roar carried from above. "All done! Get down!"
The crew descended the ladder like soldiers retreating from a trench. They were gray with exhaustion, their clothes plastered with sweat. Collins and Walt didn't linger; they were in their trucks and moving before the snow could turn the gravel to grease.
Frank paused by the door of his pickup, looking back at the house and then at me. "Good work, Olivia," he called out. "At least you didn't stitch your fingers together."
Then it was just me and Ben. The snow was falling in earnest now, a white curtain settling over the clearing. Ben stood by histruck, his hand resting on the door, watching me. He didn't say a word, just offered a short nod of acknowledgement.
Then he climbed in his truck. The brake lights glowed red through the falling snow, but he didn't move. The engine idled, waiting. I walked over to the driver's side and he rolled down the window.
"You coming?" he asked. "Nothing more we can do today, Liv. Not in this."
"Yeah. I’m right after you."
He nodded, rolled the window back up. The truck stayed put, brake lights glowing. I turned and looked at the house one more time.
It rose up against the darkening sky, solid and protected. The roof was black with membrane, the plastic-covered openings snapping softly in the wind. It looked like a building now. I looked down at my hands, blistered and raw from the staple gun, the pale band where my ring used to be chapped red from the cold.
I’d been suffocating in Ryan's mess for what felt like forever, but standing here, looking at what we'd built today—what I'd helped build—something felt different.
The house was still unfinished and raw, sure… but it was standing.
And so was I.
I walked back to my car and climbed in. Ben's truck pulled out ahead of me, and I followed his taillights down the driveway, the snow already covering our tracks.
In the rearview mirror, the house disappeared into the white.
And I felt proud.
Chapter 26
Ben
Three months.
