He tapped his knuckles against his thigh three times, a rapid, hollow sound.
“Morning, Mom,” he said, his voice clipped and dry.
“You look like you did not sleep,” I said.
He pulled a strap tight until the nylon hummed.
Before he could answer, his phone began to buzz in his front shirt pocket.
He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and his face went stiff.
He did not answer it immediately, just stared at the glass while the vibration shook his hand.
“Are you going to get that?” I asked.
He did not say a word, just turned on his heel and walked toward the back porch.
I stood by the truck bed, holding the red paddle by its cold aluminum shaft.
Maya was already sitting in the passenger seat, her head pressed against the glass, looking straight ahead.
Through the screen door of the back porch, I could see Daniel pacing the floorboards.
He was whispering into the phone, his head tilted down, his shoulder hunched high to shield his mouth.
His hand gripped the wooden railing so hard his knuckles turned white.
He spoke in short, fierce bursts, then listened, his boots making a soft scraping sound on the painted wood.
I walked closer, my shoes silent on the grass, but he hung up before I reached the steps.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and wiped his palm against his jeans.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Just the lumber yard,” he said. “They had a question about the cedar siding for the Miller job.”
“On a Saturday morning?” I asked.
“They open at seven,” he said, his eyes shifting toward the driveway.
He did not wait for me to speak again, just walked past me to the truck and climbed in.
I stood in the gravel as the engine started, holding the red paddle until he rolled down his window.
