Page 15 of Easy, Tiger

"I'll grab my tools and meet you there," Nolan says.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself standing at the border of the forest with a work crew that includes Ben, three other locals I recognize from the farmer's market, and Nolan, who arrives carrying a toolbox battered by decades of honest use.

"Right," Ben announces, consulting his clipboard. "We've got rotted boardwalk sections at mile markers two, four, and six. Halsey, you're with Nolan, replacing the section at marker four. It's the most visible spot for hikers, so we want it looking professional."

We hike deeper into the forest, following a well-maintained trail that winds between towering pines and across small streams. The morning air bites with an approaching chill, and my breath forms small clouds in the cold. By noon, the physical labor and the high sun will have us stripping down to our t-shirts, but right now, the lingering night frost demands every layer I wore.

"Ever done construction work before?" Nolan asks as we reach the damaged boardwalk section.

"Does assembling IKEA furniture count?"

"Not even remotely."

The old boardwalk spans a marshy area where the trail crosses a seasonal creek. Half the planks have rotted through, leaving gaps that would send an unwary hiker straight into the mud below. Nolan kneels beside the structure, testing each board with his hands before grabbing out a measuring tape.

"We'll replace the whole section. Safer than trying to patch around the damage."

Watching him work, I take in his cadence—measuring the wood twice before marking it, his every action honed down to pure, unhesitating economy. It baffles me how his injured shoulder seems to be healing so quickly. Given the trauma he described, it should take months to regain this kind of mobility, yet he works with almost no hesitation, his strength recovering at a rate that borders on unreal.

Pointing to a yellow tool in the open toolbox, he asks, "Hand me that level?"

We slip into a comfortable back-and-forth, Nolan cutting boards to length while I secure them in place, both of us kneeling on the solid ground beside the marsh. Step by step as we work, he demonstrates how to check for level, why the spacing between boards matters, and everything in between, including the difference between construction screws and deck screws.

Working in rhythm, he interrupts his momentum to roll his left shoulder with a sharp wince. I notice a faint, blooming red stain seeping through his flannel just beneath his collarbone.

"Nolan, you're bleeding," I interject, dropping my end of the board.

He checks his shoulder. "Just popped a stitch. It's fine."

"It's not fine. Sit down." Digging into my pack, I pull out my ever-present first aid kit and force him to let me re-bandage the torn skin. His strength is recovering at a rate that borders on improbable, but he's clearly pushing himself far past his limits.

"I'll have Amelia look at it tonight," he concedes quietly, watching me tape the gauze. "She's got a... special ointment that speeds things up."

"See that you do." Finishing the wrap, I hand him back his screwdriver.

We ease back into our workflow, though I make sure to take on more of the heavy lifting. As he patiently guides me through measuring the next joist, detailing exactly how the wood will settle over the winter, I smile.

"You're a natural teacher," I tell him, fitting another board into place.

"Comes from working with apprentices. Easier to explain once than fix mistakes later."

"Is that your philosophy for everything?"

"Pretty much." He drives a screw home with effortless speed. "Measure twice, cut once, explain clearly, and trust people to do their best work."

"Sounds like a recipe for disappointment."

"Sounds like a recipe for building things that last."

By noon, the work crew has expanded to include two more volunteers who arrived with sandwiches and a thermos of coffee that tastes like it could strip paint. The atmosphere feels more like a community picnic than actual labor—everyone trading stories and gentle insults while replacing rotted planks.

"Halsey, you're holding that board like it might bite you," calls out Beckham, a retired electrician with paint-stained fingers, a weathered ballcap shoved back on gray hair, and the easy grin of a man who's never once passed up a chance to needle someone. "It's already dead lumber. Can't hurt you now."

"Says the man who hammered his own thumb," I shoot back, earning a round of laughter from the group.

"That's different. My thumb was asking for it."

Ben appears at our section of boardwalk, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the cool air. "How are we doing over here?"