Necessity.
One word. No elaboration. Just… necessity.
What kind of necessity led someone to develop expert-level knowledge of structural engineering? The word conjured images of someone building shelter in harsh conditions, or perhaps growing up in a household where things were always breaking and needed repair.
The mystery of Rion deepened, and with it, my curiosity.
The library closed at six,but it was nearly seven by the time I’d shooed out the last lingering patrons and locked the front doors. Now it was just me, the books, and a rickety ladder waiting for emergency surgery.
I’d changed into jeans I kept in my locker for shelving days, not wanting to attempt ladder repair in a skirt. With Rion’s instructions pulled up on my phone and the tools laid out beside me, I set to work.
The process was more challenging than I’d anticipated. The old ladder, despite its decrepit state, stubbornly resisted my amateur repair attempts. The wood was harder than I expected, the angles awkward, and my inexperience with power tools painfully evident.
After thirty minutes of struggling, I sent Rion a frustrated update.
This is harder than it looks. The screws won’t go in straight and I think I’m making it worse.
His reply was immediate.
Are you pre-drilling the holes?
I stared at my phone.
Pre-drilling what holes?
The three dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared several times, as if he was writing, deleting, and rewriting his response. Finally:
“You need to create pilot holes with a small drill bit before inserting the screws. Otherwise, the wood will split and the repair will fail.”
I looked at my tool collection. No drill.
“No drill in the maintenance closet. Any other suggestions?”
Another pause.
“Use the smallest nail you have and the hammer to create pilot holes. Be precise with your angle.”
It was worth a try. I selected the thinnest nail I could find, positioned it carefully, and tapped it with the hammer to create a small indent. Then, holding my breath, I removed the nail and attempted to insert the screw.
To my surprise and delight, it went in smoothly, the wood accepting it without resistance.
“It worked!” I texted, feeling disproportionately proud of this tiny victory.
“Continue with the remaining connection points,” came the reply. “Send a picture when complete.”
I followed his instructions methodically, pre-drilling each hole and carefully inserting the screws exactly as directed. The work was slow and meticulous, but I found an unexpected satisfaction in following precise instructions and seeing immediate results.
Ninety minutes later, sweaty and with several minor scratches on my hands, I stood back to admire my handiwork. The ladder looked… well, it still looked old and somewhat dubious, but the cross-bracing was now securely attached, and the whole structure felt significantly sturdier when I gave it an experimental shake.
I snapped a picture and sent it to Rion.
“Finished! What do you think?”
His response took longer this time, as if he was carefully examining my work.
“Acceptable for a temporary solution. The bottom right connection could be more secure. But it should hold for your display needs.”
I felt a ridiculous surge of pride at his assessment. “Acceptable” from Rion seemed equivalent to effusive praise from anyone else.
