“Wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way,” Ryker lied. The hardware store was the first battlefield.
The trouble began on a Tuesday.
Ryker looked at the crooked, wobbling, glorious mess they’d made. “A trapezoid can hold books,” he said. “If you believe in it.”
Viggo measured. Ryker held the other end of the tape but kept moving it to scratch Biscuit’s ears. The measurements came out differently each time. 48 inches. Then 51. Then 47 and a half.
They loaded it with books. Poetry next to wilderness guides. Architectural blueprints beside dog-eared mysteries. And on the very top shelf, just above eye level, Viggo placed his collection of vintage compasses—all pointing true north, all perfectly aligned.
Then Ryker said, “Let’s build a bookshelf.”
They made mistakes. They fixed them. They made new mistakes. And somewhere between the second coat of stain and the final, satisfying click of the last shelf bracket, they built something better than a bookshelf.