* * *
The north wall was worse than Ira remembered.
He stood in the gutted dining room, work gloves on, a pry bar in his hand, staring at the exposed studs like they might tell him where to start. The lumber had finally arrived Tuesday—stacked in the side yard now, wrapped in plastic, waiting. But Harmon Brothers couldn't reschedule until next week, and Ridgeline still wasn't returning his calls, and the volunteers had scattered back to their summer plans, and so here he was.
Alone. Again.
He'd told his mom he was "making progress." He'd told Ellie he was "fine, just busy." He'd told himself he could handle this, that all it took was showing up, that vision plus effort equaled results.
The rot in the wall didn't care about his vision.
He wedged the pry bar behind a piece of damaged baseboard and pulled. The wood came away soft, crumbling, leaving dark streaks on his gloves. The smell hit him—damp and sweet and wrong, like something alive had died slowly in the walls.
When I find rot, I cut it out.
He stopped. Set the pry bar down. Breathed.
He wasn't going to think about that. Not today. Today was about work. About moving forward. About proving—to Ridgeline, to Miss Hagarty, to himself—that he could see this through.
He picked up the pry bar and kept going.
* * *
He heard the truck before he saw it.
A diesel engine, low and rattling, pulling into the parking lot. Ira straightened, wiping his forehead with the back of his glove. He wasn't expecting anyone. The next delivery wasn't scheduled until Monday.
He walked to the front door—or what was left of it, the frame stripped, the screen long gone—and looked out.
A white pickup sat in the lot. Cedar Ridge Lumber & Supply on the door, green letters faded from sun. The engine cut. The driver's door opened.
The kid who stepped out was about Ira's age. Light brown hair, messy. Dirty polo shirt, jeans, work boots. He had a clipboard in one hand and something like amusement on his face as he looked up at the parsonage.
Ira knew him. Sort of. They'd graduated together three weeks ago. Had a couple classes—government, maybe, and that environmental science elective junior year. He was quiet in the way that meant he was thinking, not the way that meant he was shy. Ira had never talked to him beyond "can I borrow a pencil" and "did you get the homework."
Rowan. Rowan something.
"Hey," Ira called from the doorway. "Can I help you?"
Rowan looked at him. The amusement didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.
"You the parsonage guy?"
"I'm coordinating the renovation, yeah."
"Coordinating." Rowan repeated the word like he was tasting it. He walked toward the porch, clipboard tucked under his arm. "That what we're calling it?"
Ira felt his spine straighten. The same automatic response he had with Luca, with Miss Hagarty, with anyone who might be assessing him. "Is there a delivery I forgot about?"
"Nope." Rowan stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at Ira. "Just wanted to see it."
"See what?"
"The mold house." He gestured at the parsonage with the clipboard. "Everyone in town knows this place. My dad's been saying for years someone should tear it down. So when I saw the order come through, I figured—" He shrugged. "Had to see who was crazy enough to try."
Ira didn't know what to say to that. He was still stuck on mold house, on the casual way Rowan said it, like the building's decay was common knowledge. Like everyone had been watching it rot except him.
"It's a renovation," Ira said. "Not that crazy."
"You're here alone."
"The contractor's coming next week."
"Uh huh." Rowan climbed the porch steps, not waiting for an invitation. He walked past Ira into the gutted living room, looking around like he was appraising livestock. "And until then you're just... what? Pulling out baseboards with a pry bar?"
"I'm making progress."
"You're making a mess."
"I'm doing what no one else did." The words came out sharper than Ira expected. "At least I'm here."
Rowan looked at him. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or reassessment.
"Did you come here just to criticize, or—"
"I came to see." Rowan turned to face him. The amusement was still there, but underneath it was something sharper. Curiosity, maybe. Or assessment. "And to tell you something."
"Tell me what?"
Rowan leaned against the doorframe to the dining room, arms crossed, weight easy. He looked like someone who had never once worried about how much space he was taking up.
"That lumber delivery last week," he said. "The one that didn't show up Friday."
Ira's chest tightened. The memory was still raw: the empty lot, the contractor checking his phone, Miss Hagarty's silver Camry pulling in.
"What about it?"
"That was me."
* * *
For a moment, Ira didn't understand.
"What do you mean, that was you?"
"The order came through Wednesday." Rowan's voice was level, but something underneath it shifted. "I was on intake. Saw the address—the old parsonage behind First Presbyterian—and I just... didn't process it. Figured I'd get to it later."
"You didn't—"
"And then later was Thursday. And then it was Friday and it was easier to let it be 'a mistake' than admit I sat on it." He shrugged, but it wasn't casual anymore. "My dad's been eating favors for church people my whole life. I saw the address and I got petty. Didn't think it would actually matter."
Ira stared at him.
The lumber hadn't arrived because of a supply chain issue. It hadn't arrived because of a clerical error or a miscommunication or any of the vague excuses the yard had given him when he'd called, frantic, watching his volunteers stand around with nothing to do.
It hadn't arrived because this kid—this kid he barely knew—had decided not to do his job.
"You—" Ira's voice came out strange. Thin. "Do you have any idea what happened because of that?"
"Not really." Rowan didn't sound defensive. Just honest. "That's kind of why I'm here."
Ira wanted to be angry. He could feel it trying to rise—the heat, the indignation, the how dare you. But Rowan wasn't smirking anymore. He was just looking. Waiting.
"The contractor left," Ira said finally. "The volunteers went home. I spent the whole day making calls that went nowhere."
"Okay. Yeah." Rowan rubbed the back of his neck. "That's worse than I thought."
"That's it?"
"What do you want me to say?" He shrugged, but it wasn't dismissive. More like he genuinely didn't know. "I didn't think it would matter that much. It was three days."
"It mattered."
"Yeah." Rowan looked around the gutted room. The rot in the walls. The pry bar on the floor. "I'm getting that."
Silence. Not comfortable, but not hostile either. Just two people standing in a ruined house, figuring out what came next.
"So what happens now?" Rowan asked.
"I don't know. The contractor's coming next week. If they actually show up."
"And until then?"
Ira gestured vaguely at the walls. "This. Whatever I can do alone."
Rowan nodded slowly. Then: "That's church-kid energy right there."
"What?"
"Doing everything yourself. Earning it. Making sure no one can say you didn't try hard enough." He tilted his head. "Trying to earn extra credit with God or something?"
"That's not how it works."
"See, that's what I like about religion." Rowan's smirk was back, but his eyes were curious, not cruel. "The people who say 'that's not how it works' always look like they're trying to convince themselves."
* * *
Ira didn't have a response.
He stood there, pry bar still in his hand, work gloves filthy with rot, and he didn't have a single thing to say. Because Rowan had just named something—casually, almost carelessly—that Ira barely admitted in his journal. That he was doing this for approval. That he was trying to earn something. That his faith was less about God and more about the people who told him what God wanted.
"Why are you here?" Ira finally asked. His voice was quieter now. Tired.
"I told you. I wanted to see."
"You saw. Now what?"
Rowan looked at him for a long moment. The smirk faded. What replaced it wasn't quite kindness—more like recognition. Like he'd found something he'd been looking for.
"Now I'm curious," he said.
"About what?"
"About whether you're actually going to do this. Fix this place. Or whether you're just going through the motions because someone told you it would make you a good person."
Ira felt the words in his chest. The truth of them. The uncomfortable, unasked-for truth.
"I don't know," he heard himself say.
Rowan nodded, like that was the right answer.
"Okay," he said. "That's something."
He turned and walked back toward the front door, boots loud on the bare subfloor. At the threshold, he stopped.
"I'm off at four. If you're still here, I'll bring some actual tools. That pry bar's a joke."
"Why would you help me? You're the reason this whole thing fell apart."
Rowan looked back over his shoulder. The smirk was there again, but softer now.
"Guess I want to see what happens next."
He walked out. A moment later, the truck engine rumbled to life and pulled away.
Ira stood in the empty parsonage, pry bar in hand, rot in the walls, and something new sitting heavy in his chest. Not anger, exactly. Not shame.
Something more like a question.
Are you doing this because you believe in it? Or because someone told you to?
He didn't know the answer.
He picked up the pry bar and got back to work.
* * *
Ira checked his phone. One bar. No messages.
He set it on the windowsill where the signal was slightly better and went back to the baseboard he'd been working on. The rot was deeper here, spreading up into the studs. He could smell it every time he pulled a piece loose.
At 4:07, a truck rumbled past on the road. He looked up. Kept looking until the sound faded.
At 4:23, he told himself to stop checking. Went back to prying. His arms ached.
At 5:10, the light through the windows had shifted from afternoon to something softer, longer. He realized he'd been waiting for almost two hours. Working, yes. But waiting.
People say things all the time.
He pulled another piece of baseboard free. Threw it on the pile harder than he needed to.
At 6:15, he gathered his tools and drove home.
* * *
The journal was open on his lap.
Ira sat on his bed, back against the headboard, the house quiet around him. His mom had gone to bed an hour ago. Rosie's light was off. The only sound was the ceiling fan ticking through its rotation, slightly off-balance, a rhythm he'd stopped noticing years ago.
He'd showered when he got home. Scrubbed the rot-smell off his hands, out from under his fingernails. But he could still feel it. The soft give of damaged wood. The dark streaks on his gloves.
The pen was in his hand. He'd been staring at the blank page for ten minutes.
Finally, he wrote:
Thursday.
A guy showed up at the parsonage today. Rowan something. We graduated together but I don't really know him. His dad owns the lumber yard.
He told me he's the reason the delivery didn't come last Friday. Just—didn't process the order. Wanted to see what would happen.
I should be angry. I am angry. I think.
But he said something I can't stop hearing.
"The people who say 'that's not how it works' always look like they're trying to convince themselves."
He called it church-kid energy. Doing everything yourself. Earning it. Making sure no one can say you didn't try hard enough.
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That faith isn't about earning anything. That grace is free. That's what we teach. That's what I believe.
But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
He said he'd come back at four. Bring real tools. Help.
I stayed until six. He never showed.
I don't know why I expected him to. People say things all the time. "Let me know if you need anything." "I'll be praying for you." "We're here for you."
They don't mean it. Not really. It's just something you say.
I should know that by now.
But I stayed anyway. Kept working. Kept waiting. Like an idiot.
The question he asked is still sitting in my chest:
Are you doing this because you believe in it? Or because someone told you to?
I don't know.
I hate that I don't know.
I hate that my mouth went blank when he said it. That my chest knew before my brain caught up.
I hate that I just stood there.
Maybe everyone else saw too. Maybe they just didn't say anything.
Maybe that's worse.
Ira stared at what he'd written. The pen had pressed hard enough to leave grooves in the next page.
He closed the journal. Set it on his nightstand. Turned off the lamp.
The glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling had faded to almost nothing. He could barely see them anymore. But he knew they were there, holding their positions, waiting.
He thought about Rowan's smirk. The way he'd leaned against the doorframe like he owned it. The way he'd said I want to see what happens next like Ira was something worth watching.
He pulled the covers up and let the dark settle over him.
Tomorrow he'd go back to the parsonage. Keep working. Keep showing up. That was the only thing he knew how to do.
Whether he believed in it or not.