The trouble began on a Tuesday.
“What?” Ryker asked.
“That’s never stopped me before.” They didn’t finish the bookshelf that day. Or the next. But on the third day, something shifted. Viggo stopped measuring twice and started measuring once. Ryker stopped guessing and started asking. They worked side by side—Viggo cutting, Ryker holding, Biscuit stealing screws and hiding them in her bed. viggo and ryker
They were an odd pair—Viggo, a retired architect who still folded his napkins into precise triangles, and Ryker, a former wilderness guide who once started a campfire with two sticks and sheer stubbornness. They’d been neighbors for twelve years, then roommates for three, after Viggo’s wife passed and Ryker’s knee finally gave out. The trouble began on a Tuesday
“That one’s full. And it’s ugly.” Or the next
“Ryker, we have a perfectly functional bookshelf in the hallway.”
“Neither are we,” Ryker said.