He kept his head down and his steps steady, the way you did when a room wanted to decide what you were. The bell above the door jingled. Warm air smelled like paint, pine boards, and old coffee. The store had been here longer than the strip mall down the road, longer than the new ranch houses sprouting west of town like folks were planting money in the soil.
Behind the counter, Earl Miller—square shoulders, white hair, flannel shirt—looked up from a ledger. Earl’s eyes went to Caleb’s hands first, then to his face.
“Caleb,” Earl said, not smiling, not frowning. Just stating a fact. “Back again.”
Caleb nodded. He slid his notebook out and flipped it open to a page full of sketches and measurements. The paper was smudged like it had been worked hard.
“I need stove pipe,” Caleb said. “Four-inch. Two elbows, one straight, one adjustable if you got it.”
