They were having a great time until Liam walked in.

Tim was a math whiz, and Gary, a building contractor, was showing him how to calculate how many trusses were needed to hold up the roof of your average split-level house. Jo was not helping by telling the story of the time Gary had made the family of a burned-out home wait through three tries before he got the truss size right.

“It wasn’t me; it was the fabricator,” Gary said in protest. “And in the interest of full disclosure,” he told Tim, “it took four tries for them to get it right. I was downtime thirteen days on that job.” He shook his head and drained his beer. “Plus the granite for the kitchen counter kept breaking. Hard to get quality work done right and on time in this state.”

“Unless they get you to do it,” Jo said, regarding him with a sister’s sapient eye.

Gary grinned and did not deny the accusation.

“So you build people’s houses,” Tim said.

“And remodel them.”

“Remodel?”

“Yeah, rip ’em apart and start over.”

“Like?”

Gary tucked into his New York strip. Wy had always appreciated an enthusiastic appetite, being a feeder herself. “I just finished up the remodel of a split-level home in Spenard. The owner has had the house for three years and she’s just getting around to correcting everything the previous owners did to it.”