“Watch the corner,” Robert called out, his eyes on the narrow doorway. “Don’t let it ding the frame.”
I did not drop my end, though the pain was a hot spike that ran up my forearm. The blood started as a thin red line, then began to pool and drip onto the concrete floor.
“Set it down easy,” Robert said as we reached the temporary wall.
We slid the drywall into place against the studs, the bottom edge resting on the lift jacks.
I squeezed my fist tight, feeling the warm wetness spread across my skin.
“You’re bleeding on the sheetrock,” Robert said, pointing his pencil at my hand. “That’s going to show through the primer if we don’t wipe it.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“You need a bandage on that,” he said. “Rust from those studs will give you lockjaw if you aren’t careful.”
“We have four more sheets to carry before we can call the taper,” I said.
I pulled a grey shop towel from my back pocket, wrapped it twice around my hand, and tied the corners with my teeth.
“Let’s get the next one,” I said.
Robert looked at the stained rag, then back at the double-bunk frames I had started in the corner of the shop.
“Who is this room for anyway?” he asked. “You told me you were just expanding your storage office.”
“I need it finished by the end of the week,” I said.
“If the inspector sees these frames before the drywall is taped, we are in trouble, Robert.”
“I’m not the one who has to answer to the city,” he said, walking back to the truck for another sheet.
The contractor left at five, his truck tail-lights disappearing down the gravel road.
I stood in the small kitchen area behind the tool racks, the silence of the shop settling around me.
A five-pound bag of dry pasta sat on the laminate counter next to a jar of red sauce.
I had found the instructions on a website called Simple Family Meals, which suggested four ounces of dry noodles per child.
I multiplied it by five, then added my own portion, measuring the water into a giant aluminum stockpot I usually used for cleaning metal parts.
