Hend’s dry shed smelled of onions.
The previous tenant had stored them in braided ropes along the rafters, and the smell remained after the hooks and last papery skins were gone. He stood in the doorway with a piece of chalk, considering the floor as gravely as a surveyor considering a mountain pass.
“Here,” he said.
Tavin looked at the chalk mark. “That’s where the door opens.”
“The long bed needs light.”
“The long bed also needs to arrive.”
Hend moved the mark half a pace. Tavin stepped through the doorway carrying an imaginary casting across both arms. His hip met the proposed workbench. Hend sighed and rubbed out another line.
By noon they had made room for the work, the workers, the incoming parts, and a person carrying soup. Lori declared the soup route the best-tested passage in the building. She laid her own workcloth on the separate bench by the north window and began unpacking the living couplers that would never be allowed near Hend’s hot riveting pan.
