Chapter 17: The First Reach

The alarm went off at 5:15 AM.

David sat up immediately. He swung his bare feet onto the cold pine floor and reached for his flannel work shirt.

The radiator gave a low hiss. Outside, amber streetlights lit the wet pavement along Northwood Avenue. The six-hundred-square-foot apartment smelled faintly of linseed oil from the oak table he had hauled in on Sunday.

It was small. But it was his.

He walked into the galley kitchen, struck a match, and lit the front burner under an enamel moka pot.

While the coffee brewed, he packed his lunch. He sliced sharp cheddar, spread coarse mustard over two slabs of sourdough, and dropped a green apple into a brown paper sack.

He packed one lunch now. Not three.

The simplicity felt strange after twenty years of packing insulated bags, checking tire pressures, and absorbing everyone else’s morning emergencies. For two decades, he had lived like a man hauling dry lumber through a downpour, frantic that a single board might drop.

Now his hands were clean.

At six o’clock, he drove his truck west to Batavia.

The framing crew had already started unloading two-by-six studs when he pulled into the muddy lot. The job was a two-story colonial remodel with a dormer addition over the garage. Frost clung to the rough Douglas fir.

David buckled on his heavy leather tool belt. The twenty-two-ounce hammer settled against his right thigh with a familiar weight.

“Morning, Dave,” Frank Kowalski called out from the subfloor deck. Frank was fifty-five, with a graying beard and cedar dust worked deep into the seams of his knuckles. “We’re snapping chalk lines on the south wall. Grab the hundred-foot tape.”

“On it,” David said.

They framed straight through the morning without idle chatter.

David valued carpentry because the wood never lied. A plate either lined up flush with the layout mark or it was off by a sixteenth of an inch. If a wall drifted out of plumb, the bubble in a four-foot level showed the error instantly. You couldn’t talk a warped header into sitting true. You pulled the nails, discarded the timber, and cut a fresh piece.

At noon, the crew broke for lunch beside the flatbed trailer.

David sat on an overturned drywall bucket, unwrapped his sandwich, and pulled his phone from his coat.

Two notifications waited on the screen.

The first was an email from Richard Thorne: Mercer filed Karen’s formal motion for temporary spousal support this morning. The hearing is set for March 12 before Judge Kowalski. I filed our response citing the nineteen thousand remaining in joint checking. We hold solid ground.

David archived the message. The legal process moved along fixed dates and verified filings. It didn’t require shouting matches in a hallway.

The second message had arrived at 11:42 AM.

It came from Maya:

Dad, can I see you today? Not at the house. Somewhere public. I can meet you anywhere after school.

David stared at the screen.

His old instinct pulled hard against his chest: Where are you? Do you need gas money? Are you okay?

He paused.

He drew a slow breath, letting the cold air clear his head.

Rushing to smooth over every awkward moment had cost him twenty years. He didn’t need to run a rescue mission to be a father.

He tapped a brief reply: Oak Street Diner at 4:30. Back booth.

Maya wrote back within a minute: I’ll be there.

The Oak Street Diner smelled of griddle grease, burnt coffee, and bleach.

It sat on a triangular gravel patch between a railroad spur and a closed lumberyard. Red vinyl booths ran along the back wall, their seams split and mended with silver duct tape. The Formica tables were wiped clean, and the dining room was quiet between the afternoon shifts.

David arrived ten minutes early. He hung his canvas jacket on the brass wall hook, took the corner booth facing the door, and ordered a mug of black coffee from an older waitress.