man can’t see another just two rungs above, it feels like the elements are combining against them. Tom is sweating buckets from sheer stress alone, never mind the exertion of hefting the drill up a frigging cliff. Clive has mysteriously made himself scarce for the night. Derry needed to be somewhere in the city, apparently. But he has Erik and Dag here, and a dozen of their friends who are giving of their time to help out a widower with his build.
He could cry when they reach the top. It’s a victory in itself, even though there is so much more of the house to build. So much yet that could go wrong. But the new Tom, the one who’s being forged in the flames of grief and single parenthood and a prevailing fear that he is screwing up his daughters, decides that the only reality is now. No more talk of yet. Celebrate the victories when they come.
And so, when the drill reaches the top he pulls twelve bottles of vintage Scotch from a case and hands one out to each of the men for their efforts.
Never has a man been more warmly thanked.
* * *
—
Dag starts early the following day. Despite the late night he’s back on-site just after dawn, up and raring to go. He’s excited about the drill, mostly because it’s a pretty mean piece of equipment and he saw the look on Jakob’s face when they collected it in Ålesund. And when he told Jakob what the drill was for, another look of respect. He, Dag Lykken, was going to be the one to personally drill the frame for the lift of this incredible house, designed by none other than Tom Faraday. He can’t wait to tell his professors at university this news. He would be sure to take a few selfies with the drill for his Facebook profile, hoping Eva will see.
“Hey, hey, D-D-Dad?” he calls out to his father, who is busy hauling iron girders with two other workers toward the cliff edge for the second tier of the house. “Take a photo of me, will you?”
“Take it yourself,” Erik grunts back.
Dag needs both hands to operate the drill. The photo can wait. He’s making good progress. Another man, a Swedish guy named Nils, is checking to make sure Dag is drilling in the right spot. He’s too much, this guy Nils. He keeps insisting on checking the spot every five seconds, even though they lined up the drill first thing and it’s not like it can move easily. He’s making Dag nervous. Eventually he gets called away to do another job and Dag breathes a sigh of relief.
Ten feet down. Another four feet to go and he can start on the next area. There are four in total. He glances around to check none of the men are looking before setting his camera on a slab of concrete and hitting the timer. He poses with the drill, giving a big cheesy grin. The photograph sucks. He’ll do another. This time he doesn’t look up but makes sure he flexes his muscles—the idea is that he’s too serious about the job to look up for a picture, and he’s been captured in the moment, not taking something as contrived as a selfie.
The photo is crap. It’s kind of blurry, and is he really that thin? He needs to put on some weight, build some muscle.
He tries again. This time he lays the camera on the ground, angling it up so he looks bulkier. He waits. No sound from the camera. The timer must have been knocked off. He lets go of the drill handle. In the moment that he reaches down for the camera, the rod of the drill stalls deep in the rock, sending the handle shooting upward and zeroing in on the side of his head with enough force to lift him off his feet and into the air.
The last thing he knows once he’s hit the ground is that the camera has gone off. Blood begins to swamp his ears and pool around his neck. Right before he passes out he wonders if this will make a cool shot or if it’ll just be too gross.
* * *
—
The helicopter takes a long time to arrive. Twenty minutes from the call. Too long. Dag is unconscious and deathly white. He keeps fitting. He has lost a lot of blood. Erik is leaning over him, shouting and sobbing. Maren produces a