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“Let me see the manual.”

She handed it over, and our fingers brushed, sending a charge up my arm.

I took a quick look, studying the instructions. She was right about the kits, but I noticed they had numbered them incorrectly.”

“Kit three,” I said. “They have it numbered incorrectly in the manual. Kit three is your bracket fastener,” I held it up.

Ember sat there, staring at me. “You figured that out in thirty seconds?”

I grabbed the other pieces, lining them up. “I do have an engineering degree.”

“Oh, of course,” she stared at me, looking completely annoyed.

We worked side by side. She held the pieces in place while I screwed them together. I held the manual while she attached the miniature shingles to the roof with tweezers. Our hands brushed constantly, passing screws, steadying walls, and reaching for the same pieces at the same time.

Every point of contact was driving me mad.

“You’re good at this,” she said, as she snapped a tiny window frame into place.

“Well, in all fairness, I helped my grandfather with the model trains he had in the basement.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep, he was a collector and had quite the collection. I used to love helping him put those together and the little buildings in the town.”

Ember was quiet for a moment, fitting the tiny staircase into place. “Is that where Sophie gets it? The building thing, the engineering brain?”

“Perhaps. Rebecca was an architect. It could be from either of us.” I paused, realizing this was the first time I’d mentioned Rebecca’s name casually in two years.

“What about you?” I questioned. “Where does the writing come from?”

“Oh, nowhere glamorous. I grew up in a small studio apartment with my mom. She worked nights. I spent a ton of time alone, making up stories and characters to keep myself company. Turns out one can sell those stories, not for much, but some.”

“Well, you’re good at it.”

She looked up at me. “Wait? Does that mean that you’ve read more?”

I nodded; there was no use denying it.

“You write grief well,” I said, “Too well for someone your age.”

“Well, you don’t have to be old to understand loss.”

“What or who did you lose?”

I asked it before I thought about it. It wasn’t my place to know, and the question hung between us. She set the tweezers down and sat back on her heels.

“My mom got sick when I was nineteen. MS. She is stable now, but for a while she wasn’t,” she exhaled. “I stopped my education once I graduated college to help take care of her. That was why I became a nanny. I needed flexible but steady work. We couldn’t afford a live-in nurse or even one who stopped by occasionally. I was already into writing, so I wrote at night when I couldn’t sleep to help pass the time.

“Is that why you need the royalty money? Because your mom isn’t well.”

Her eyes widened. “You know about that?”

“I overheard you on the phone one morning inquiring about it. I didn’t want to ask, but I sensed an urgency in your voice.”

She looked down at her hands and then up at me. “Yes, I was waiting for money from my publisher. It came in, but it wasn’t the amount I was expecting. At least the money I received, along with what I have gotten paid so far, covered her medication co-pay and our rent for now. Insurance covers most of it, but most isn’t all of it. Plus, I want to make sure I can set aside some money as well for emergencies,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m handling it. I always do, and I have never not succeeded.”

“I never thought you weren’t capable; that wasn’t why I asked. But I’d like to make it easier for you. Let me help you.”