The rebuilding didn’t start well. The man who said he’d be there on Monday with my white pine logs rolled up on Wednesday morning, acting like he had nothing to apologize for. He had one of those long flatbeds with a crane on it, with enough lifting power to set every last log down as gently as a teacup. But it took him all morning to clear the truck, and he damn near knocked over the chimney in the process. Then he stood around for a while, trying to tell me about his own cabin down in Traverse City. “The cabins I passed on the way in,” he finally said. “You built those?”

“My father did.”

“Looks like you had a big one here,” he said. He hitched his pants up as he looked around the clearing. “What happened? Did it burn down?”

“It did.”

“Hell of a thing,” he said. “You gotta be careful with those wood stoves.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Looks like you learned the hard way.”

I let a few seconds tick by. “It wasn’t a wood stove,” I finally said. “Somebody burned it down.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“This gentleman and I, we had a little disagreement.”

It took a moment for that one to sink in. “Are you shittin’ me, man? You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“You don’t have to believe it.”

“I suppose you’re gonna rebuild this all by yourself, too.”

“I’m gonna try.”

“Seriously, where’s all your help at?”

“If I need help, I’ll get it.”

“It’s October,” he said. “You’re not thinking of starting this now, are you?”

“I’d have to be crazy, you mean.”

“Is what I’m saying, yeah. Unless you’re just shittin’ me some more.”

“Well, I appreciate your concern,” I said. “And I appreciate you bringing up my logs. You were only two days late. Have a good trip back home.”