Relief loosens his shoulders. Grinding is a pain, but it’s not a catastrophe. No calls to suppliers. No ferries. No significant delays.
I gesture toward the eastern edge, where the concrete rises high enough to catch the light wrong once you’ve trained to spot the subtle difference. “We take it down here, taper it out over six feet. I want the laser dead-on when we’re done.”
Clint reappears with the diamond grinder tucked under one arm, the extension cord coiled over his shoulder. He doesn’t ask questions as he sets it down and plugs in the vacuum shroud.
“Mask up,” I tell them. “You don’t need this stuff in your lungs.”
The grinder screams to life, a high-pitched whine vibrating through my boots as the blade kisses concrete. Pale dust blooms, then vanishes into the shroud as Clint eases the tool forward without rushing. Rushing leads to dips. Dips lead to worse problems.
I crouch again, laser level in hand, tracking the red line as the surface drops by fractions.
“Two more should do it,” I call, watching the line settle.
Clint works through each pass before he eases off the trigger, and the sudden quiet rings in my ears.
Devin checks the edge with his tape. “Dead on.”
“Good job. Clean it,” I say, standing. “We’re good to move forward.”
They get back to work without ceremony, and I pocket the blueprint, the problem fixed before it could snowball into a bigger issue.
The rest of the morning flows in a rhythm of problem-solving and coordination. I check the time and discover it’s nearing lunch.
“Clint,” I call across the site. “Let’s sync up on the afternoon schedule.”
We huddle over the day’s plan near the equipment trailer, adjusting tasks based on the morning’s discoveries. Clint’s methodical thinking complements my tendency to work three steps ahead.
Clint scratches notes onto the edge of his clipboard with a stubby pencil. “If we finish waterproofing the east wall today, we can start the perimeter drain first thing tomorrow. Backfill by the end of the week, assuming the weather holds.”
“It won’t,” I say, and look toward the water, where clouds hover on the horizon. “But we can get ahead of it.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “You always say that.”
“And I’m always right,” I counter, though my attention drifts back to the foundation, checking lines out of habit. Once you see a flaw, you start searching for its friends.
Clint hooks his thumbs into his tool belt. “Anything else bothering you?”
“No,” I say, but pause and reconsider. “Not yet.”
The response earns me a look that says he knows better, but he lets it go. Good foremen understand when to push and when to keep the wheels turning.
“Lunch at noon?” Clint asks.
“Yeah. I’ll walk the perimeter once more, then I’m good.”
He heads off, already calling out assignments, and I take the long way around the foundation, running my hand over the concrete. This one was added to Phase Two late in the planning, and it’s set a little farther back from the other cabins, with a larger footprint.
I have a sneaking suspicion about who it’s intended for, but I’m pretending not to see what’s happening.
As I head toward the management trailers, I scan the grounds for any sign of Leif, but he must have left while I was busy.
Inside my cramped office space, I grab my lunch cooler as I pull my phone out to send some emails, only to find a text waiting.
Leif
Finished my meeting with the Wrights. Would you have time for lunch today?
No pressure if you’re busy.
