Daniel set down the hand plane. Wiped his hand on his pants. The question was simple and not simple at the same time.
Someone else might have heard a hint in it—time to move on, maybe. But Daniel already knew how she asked questions: no hints, just the question itself. He thought about it honestly, without rushing.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. Eleanor looked at him and waited. “A while ago that would’ve been a bad answer,” he added.
“Not knowing meant no plan. No plan meant danger. Meant I had to come up with something fast.” He looked at the apple tree, at the fresh earth beneath the shed, at the straight walls he had built. “And now?”
“Now I don’t know, and it doesn’t scare me.” “That’s not strange,” Eleanor said.
She turned and went back into the house. Through the open door came the smell of supper. Something with onions and potatoes—plain, filling, familiar.
Daniel stood in the yard a little longer. Above the apple tree the sky was darkening: blue first, then purple at the edges. The new shed stood solid, smelling faintly of pine and fresh shavings.
Under it, deep in the dense dark earth, lay the box with everything it had carried: pain, sickness, death, one stolen month, and a long road back. All of it was there. Covered over and put in its place.
Daniel picked up the hand plane from the ground, carried it to the mudroom, and hung it on a nail. Took off his jacket and shook it out; wood shavings fell to the floor. He looked at them, thought he ought to sweep up, and went for the broom.
Life went on. It had become concrete, close at hand, sized to fit. And that was the main thing.
