” Lucy gestured to the rough plywood floor. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. ” “You think that you can do that?” “I am sure of it,” he answered, confidently. After a while one began to talk. “I remember hearing something about it. Saws, hammers, planes, axes, augers, adzes, chisels, gimblets, and an endless variety of tools were ranged, like a stand of martial weapons at an armoury, in racks against the walls. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. You can go for a walk with Lucy.
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