Page 35 of Girl, Reborn

He turned back to the farmhouse'sweathered clapboard, the old oak door he was fitting into a newly brickedframe. The damn thing was heavy as sin, solid as the day it was hung. Theydidn't make them like this anymore, all particle board and flimsy veneer. Thiswas craftsmanship, the kind of woodwork that'd outlast the cockroaches.

The new owner had been really particularabout keeping it. He had a real hard-on for 'maintaining the historicalcharacter' or some such bullcrap. Weird, but whatever. As long as the checkcleared, Jeremiah would brick up the goddamn Taj Mahal if that's what the manwanted.

Jeremiah hefted another brick and slappedsome mortar on with a trowel. The repetitive motions were soothing, almostmeditative. There was something satisfying about good, honest labor. Aboutworking with his hands, watching something take shape under his touch. Even ifthat something was just a slapdash patch job, covering up a door to nowhere.

He shook his head. Rich people. Who knewwhat went on in their heads?

Jeremiah had just started shimming itsquare when a shadow fell across his boots. He glanced up.

Speak of the devil. There was the manhimself, a tall drink of water in pressed chinos and a crisp white polo. Trent something-or-other,one of those double-barrel surnames that screamed old money.

‘Hotter than hell out here, huh?’ Trentthrust a glass of iced tea under Jeremiah’s nose. Condensation beaded the sidesthen dripped onto the parched earth. ‘Thought you could use a littlerefreshment.’

Jeremiah hesitated. He wasn't in the habitof taking handouts from his employers, no matter how tempting. Blurred thelines, made things muddy. A man had his pride, after all. And who the helloffered their contractors iced tea? It was usually coffee or beer or nothing.

But Christ Almighty, he was parched. Mouthdry as a dirt road, tongue practically sticking to the roof of it. And that tealooked cool as a mountain stream, with a slice of lemon floating in its amberdepths like a promise.

‘Mighty kind of you,’ he said, reachingfor the glass. ‘Much obliged.’

‘Least I can do.’ Trent’s smile widened.‘You're out here busting your hump in this heat, making my little fixer-uppershine. Gotta take care of the help, am I right?’

There was something off about the way hesaid it, but Jeremiah shook it off, too grateful of the refreshment to readinto things. He raised the glass in a little salute, then tipped it back. Thetea was ambrosia on his parched throat, icy and sweet with just a hint ofbitter. He gulped it down greedily, draining half the glass in one long pull.

And for a moment, everything was perfect.The heat faded away, the ache in his muscles easing like a knot coming undone.He could almost forget where he was, could almost pretend he was back home onhis mama's porch, watching the fireflies dance in the gathering dusk.

‘If you need anything else, just say theword.’ And Trent made his way back into the house.

Jeremiah wiped his mouth with the back ofhis hand, set the glass down and returned to the job. He checked the levelagain, made a minor adjustment. Perfectionism was a point of pride, even onthese under-the-table gigs. Folks might say he was rough around the edges, butno one could deny the quality of his craft.

He lost himself in the work, in thesatisfying rasp of brick on mortar, the solid thunk of the oak settling intoplace. A few taps with the rubber mallet and it sat flush, snug in its newframe like it had always been there. The sun roasted his back like a laserbeam, but he was used to it. Twenty years humping lumber and swinging hammershad left him lean and tough as old leather.

The repetitive squeeze and glide of thetrigger was almost hypnotic as he laid down a neat bead of sealant around theedges. Smooth, even strokes, just like his old man had taught him. The old manmight've been a mean son of a bitch, but he knew his way around a job site.Jeremiah had learned from the best.

He was just putting the finishing toucheson the weatherstripping when it hit him.

A wave of dizziness so sudden and intense,it nearly knocked him on his ass. He staggered, bracing a hand against the doorto keep from faceplanting into his freshly mortared bricks.

What the hell?

He'd always been steady as a surgeon, anecessity in this line of work. But now his coordination was shot. Limbs heavyand slow like he was moving through molasses.

Jeremiah shook his head, trying to clearthe cobwebs. Vertigo, maybe? He'd had a bout of it a few years back, some innerear thing that left him puking his guts up for days. But this felt different.Deeper, somehow. Like the ground was tilting under his feet, the world goingsoft and sideways.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes with theheel of his hand. Christ, maybe it was sunstroke. He'd been out here for hours,cooking his brain in the relentless August heat. Or dehydration – that iced teamight've taken the edge off, but it was no substitute for good old H2O.

He ambled towards the house in search ofrespite from the heat and a good overdose of water – as rare as it was aroundthese parts. But his legs wouldn’t cooperate. His tongue felt thick, and unwieldyin his mouth, like it was coated in fuzz.

Then the dizziness crested asdarkness crowded the edges of his vision. He lurched sideways and his shoulderslammed into the unforgiving brick. Pain shot through his arm, but it wasdistant, muted. Unimportant against the rising tide of panic flooding hischest.

He needed to get inside. Needed to sitdown, put his head between his knees. Maybe call his old lady, tell her –something.

No. No way. He was fine. He was just justtired, is all. Overheated. He'd rest for a minute, catch his breath. Then he'dfinish up and get the hell out of here, go home to Diane, and avoid the sun forthe rest of his life.

He pushed off the wall, willing his legsto hold him up. One step, two. He could do this.

But the world tilted and spun like acarnival ride cranked up to eleven. Jeremiah's stomach lurched, and heswallowed hard against the sour flood of bile rising in his throat. His kneesbuckled, balance deserting him entirely.

Jeremiah wanted to scream and cry forhelp, but his vocal cords were paralyzed. He could only watch in mute horror ashis traitorous body folded like a house of cards, knees buckling and pitchinghim face-first into the dirt.

---