The Single Dad looked over.
“All three what?”
“Posts.”
“Yes.”
“The third one looked fine.”
“It looked fine.”
She walked closer.
“What’s the difference?”
He pointed at one of the removed posts lying in the grass.
“Push there.”
The Daughter crouched.
Pressed one palm near the base.
The wood gave.
Her expression changed.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Couldn’t see it.”
“No.”
“So how did you know?”
“Pressure.”
He took off one glove.
Pressed his thumb into another section.
“When rot starts inside, the outside sometimes stays pretty.”
The Daughter looked at the fence.
“Things can look solid even when they’re not.”
“Exactly.”
She glanced toward the house.
Then back.
The Single Dad noticed.
He did not ask.
The Daughter stood.
“You hungry?”
“I brought lunch.”
“My mom forgot to eat.”
The Single Dad smiled slightly.
“That happens?”
“Every day.”
“She forgets?”
“She says she’s busy.”
The Daughter looked toward the kitchen window.
“Same thing.”
Then:
“I made three sandwiches.”
“There are two people in the house.”
“I know.”
The Single Dad understood.
“Okay.”
Five minutes later she returned carrying a plate.
Turkey sandwich.
Real plate.
Napkin folded underneath.
Glass of ice water.
The Single Dad looked at it.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
She handed it over.
“You have a kid?”
The Single Dad frowned.
“How do you know?”
She pointed.
His thermos.
Minecraft sticker.
The Single Dad looked down.
His Son had stuck it there months earlier.
“A boy.”
“Nine.”
“Does he come with you?”
“Sometimes.”
The Daughter nodded.
“My mom used to bring me to work.”
“What happened?”
“She stopped.”
“Why?”
“She said I was old enough to stay home.”
“How old?”
“Nine.”
The Single Dad looked at her.
She stared at the fence.
“Nine is old enough for some things.”
He said it carefully.
“Not everything.”
The Daughter nodded.
“Exactly.”
At one fifteen, the Single Dad heard the CEO on the phone through an open kitchen window.
He could not hear all the words.
Only tone.