"Not when you're arguing with Lily," Noah replied, already halfway back to sleep. Daniel stayed beside the couch another minute, listening to the steady breathing and remembering the hospital nights when he had listened for the sound of Sarah breathing. He had spent four years treating the ordinary as something that could vanish without warning. Somewhere along the highway that evening, he had briefly forgotten to be afraid of it.
Daniel arrived at six-twenty-eight on Friday. He had always liked those two extra minutes, the small private margin between rushing and choosing to be ready. The eastern sky had barely begun to brighten, and the grass was wet enough to darken the edges of his boots. Through the kitchen window he could see Catherine standing with a mug held in both hands, dressed for a meeting that probably would not begin for another hour.
He unloaded without ringing the bell. The gate was unlocked as promised, and the signed work order gave him permission to begin within the agreed hours. He checked the concrete from the previous day, pressed lightly at the edges of the footing, and examined the bracing for overnight movement. Everything had set correctly, though he found a little more moisture in the low corner than he liked and made a note to improve the drainage before closing the ground.
When the back door opened, Catherine was holding two mugs. "You're early," she said. "Two minutes," Daniel replied. She set one cup on his toolbox, choosing the only flat place where a mug would not interfere with his work. He thanked her and recognized the same coffee she had served in the kitchen, dark and strong, with just enough cream to soften it.
"You remember how I take it?" he asked. "You drank yesterday's without sugar," Catherine replied. "I assumed that wasn't an accident." Her matter-of-fact attention pleased him more than a carefully worded compliment would have. He noticed, too, that she had brought the coffee before seeing whether he was outside, which meant she had planned for the possibility of sharing the morning.
For a while they stood near the unfinished gate without speaking. Catherine watched Daniel check the first metal bracket and listened to the quiet clicks of the ratchet. "Did you sleep?" he asked eventually. "Some," she said. "Enough to keep pretending the world is organized." He told her the fence was coming together, and she smiled faintly because she could hear the kindness in his deliberately ordinary answer.
"I told my attorney yesterday," she said. "About the board's offer. I told her I haven't agreed to anything yet." Daniel nodded, waiting in case she wanted to say more.
She explained that the shareholders would vote in three weeks and that the board had already begun calling her departure a strategic transition, although she had not resigned. "That's the trick," Catherine said. "They use the future tense so confidently that everybody starts acting as if the decision has happened."