Nina
The saw was heavier than it looked.
Nina stood over the first piece of lumber, the instruction book open on the grass beside her. The sun was barely up — a pale gold light that made the ocean look like molten metal. The air was cold, and her breath came out in small white clouds.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Caleb asked.
He was sitting on the deck, wrapped in a blanket, a mug of coffee in his left hand. His right hand was tucked under the blanket, hiding the morning tremor.
"Absolutely not," Nina said. "But the book says to cut the support beams first, so I'm cutting the support beams first."
"The book also says to wear safety goggles."
Nina looked down at the bright orange goggles Hank had thrown in for free. They were sitting on the grass next to the book.
"Fine," she said. She picked them up. Put them on. "Happy?"
"You look ridiculous."
"You look like you're not helping."
Caleb smiled. It was a slow smile, the kind that took its time. "I'm supervising."
"Supervising is not helping."
"Supervising is essential. Someone has to make sure you don't cut off a finger."
Nina picked up the saw. It was a handsaw — not electric, because Hank had said electric saws were dangerous for beginners. Nina had agreed. Now she was regretting that agreement.
She positioned the blade against the wood. Drew it back. Pushed it forward.
Nothing happened.
"You have to use pressure," Caleb called.
"I am using pressure."
"More pressure."
Nina pushed harder. The saw bit into the wood, just a little. She pulled back. Pushed again. The blade moved, but slowly — too slowly. This was going to take forever.
"This is impossible," she said.
"Nothing is impossible. You just need the right technique."
"Then come show me the right technique."
Caleb hesitated. His right hand was still under the blanket. Nina could see the faint tremor in his shoulder — the way the muscle twitched, even when he was trying to hide it.
"You don't have to," she said. "I can figure it out."
"I know you can." He set down his mug. Unwrapped the blanket from his shoulders. Stood up. "But you asked me to show you. So I'll show you."
He walked across the grass. The morning dew soaked through his socks — he wasn't wearing shoes. His right hand hung at his side, fingers curled, trembling.
Nina stepped back. Let him take the saw.
Caleb picked it up with his left hand. His right hand came up to steady the blade. The tremor made the metal wobble, but he held on.
"The trick," he said, "is to let the saw do the work. You don't force it. You guide it."
He drew the blade back. Pushed it forward. The wood parted cleanly, a thin line appearing along the marked cut.
"See?" he said.
"Show me again."
He did. This time the saw stuck halfway through, and he had to wiggle it free. He laughed — a short, surprised sound.
"Okay, that one was user error."
"You're the user."
"Unfortunately."
Nina took the saw back. Positioned the blade. This time, she remembered what he'd said — let the saw do the work — and instead of forcing it, she guided it. The blade moved smoothly. The wood parted.
"I did it," she said.
"You did it."
"I cut a piece of wood."
"You cut a piece of wood." Caleb smiled. "That's the first step."
"To what?"
"To everything."
---
They worked until noon.
By the time the sun was directly overhead, they had cut four support beams, measured them twice, and arranged them in a square on the grass. The treehouse platform was still just an idea — a collection of lumber and nails and hope — but it was starting to feel real.
Caleb's hands were shaking badly now. The sawing had tired him, and the tremor had spread to his left hand, which usually stayed steady. He sat on the deck, his back against the glass wall, his eyes closed.
Nina brought him water. He drank it with both hands.
"You pushed too hard," she said.
"I pushed just enough."
"You're shaking."
"I'm always shaking." He opened his eyes. "That's not going to change."
"It might. With medication. With rest."
"It might. Or it might get worse." He set the water down. "I'm not afraid of the shaking, Nina. I'm afraid of what happens when I can't hold the saw at all."
Nina sat down next to him. The deck was warm from the sun. "Then we build it before that happens."
"That's what I'm trying to do."
"I know." She looked out at the tree — the massive Douglas fir, the chalk marks on the trunk, the ladder leaning against the branches. "We have time."
Caleb followed her gaze. "Do we?"
"I don't know. But we have today. And tomorrow. And probably the day after that." She turned to look at him. "That's all anyone has, Caleb. Not just you. Everyone."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "My father used to say that the only difference between a sick person and a healthy person is that the sick person knows they're running out of time."
"What did he mean?"
"He meant that everyone is dying. Most people just don't think about it. They go to work, they watch TV, they make plans for next year. They act like forever is guaranteed." He paused. "My father couldn't pretend. Neither can I."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think it's a gift. To know that time is short. To not waste it." He looked down at his hands. "Other times I think it's a curse. To know that the end is coming and not be able to stop it."
Nina reached over and took his left hand. Held it. His skin was warm, despite the tremor.
"Maybe it's both," she said. "A gift and a curse. Most things are."
Caleb looked at their hands — her steady fingers wrapped around his shaking ones. "You're not afraid of me."
"I never was."
"Of my hands? Of what they mean?"
"Your hands are just hands, Caleb. They shake. So what? They still work. They still hold things. They still build things." She squeezed gently. "They still matter."
He didn't answer. But he didn't pull away either.
---
After lunch, Caleb climbed the ladder.
It wasn't planned. Nina was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when she heard the creak of wood. She looked out the window and saw him — one foot on the first rung, both hands gripping the sides, his jaw set.
She dried her hands and walked outside. Didn't say anything. Just stood at the base of the ladder and held it steady.
Caleb climbed one rung. Then another. Then another.
His right hand slipped.
For a second, Nina's heart stopped. But he caught himself — his left hand grabbed the side rail, and his right found it again, and he held on. He didn't fall. He didn't even look down.
He climbed to the top.
The platform supports were still just chalk marks on the trunk. Caleb stood on the ladder, his face level with the lowest branch. He reached out and touched the bark. The branch was thick — thicker than his arm — and covered in soft green moss.
"I made it," he said.
"You made it."
"It's not the top. It's just the first branch."
"It's higher than you were yesterday."
Caleb looked down at her. His face was flushed — from the effort, from the sun, from something else. "You're still holding the ladder."
"I said I would."
"I know. I just —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I just wanted to make sure."
Nina smiled. "I'm not going anywhere, Caleb. Not while you're up there."
He stayed on the ladder for a long time. Touching the branch. Looking at the ocean. Feeling the wind on his face. When he finally climbed down, his hands were shaking worse than before, but his eyes were brighter than Nina had ever seen them.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'm going to stand on that branch."
"Tomorrow," Nina agreed.
"Or the day after."
"Or the day after."
He looked at the tree. Then at her. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For holding the ladder."
Nina picked up the empty water bottle he'd left on the grass. "That's what I'm here for."
"No," Caleb said. "That's who you are."
---
That evening, Eleanor called.
Caleb put the phone on speaker and set it on the kitchen table. Nina was making tea — chamomile again, because Caleb said it helped him sleep.
"Tell me about the treehouse," Eleanor said.
"It's not a treehouse yet," Caleb said. "It's a pile of wood and a dream."
"A dream is a good start."
"We cut four support beams today. And I climbed the ladder."
"You climbed a ladder?"
"To the first branch. Not the top. But higher than I've been in years."
Eleanor's voice softened. "Your father would be proud."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
Caleb looked at Nina. She was pouring hot water into the mugs, her back to him. The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of chamomile and honey.
"Mom," he said. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Were you scared? When Dad got sick?"
There was a pause. Nina turned, holding both mugs. She set one in front of Caleb and sat down across from him.
"Terrified," Eleanor said. "Every single day. But fear and love live in the same house. You can't have one without the other."
"What did you do? When you were scared?"
"I held his hand. I made him soup. I sat with him when he couldn't sleep." Another pause. "I didn't fix anything. I couldn't. But I was there."
Caleb wrapped his hands around the mug. The tremor was mild tonight — a quiet shaking, like leaves in a light wind.
"That's what Nina does," he said. "She's there."
Eleanor was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I like her, Caleb. I hope you know that."
"I know."
"Don't mess it up."
Caleb almost laughed. "Mom —"
"I'm serious. She's good for you. The kind of good that doesn't come along often." Eleanor's voice was warm, but firm. "You hold onto her. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Good. Now drink your tea and go to bed. You have a treehouse to build."
The line went dead.
Caleb stared at the phone. Then at Nina. "She likes you."
"I heard."
"She told me not to mess it up."
"I heard that too."
"What does that even mean? 'Don't mess it up.'"
Nina took a sip of her tea. "It means don't be an idiot."
"I'm not an idiot."
"You fired a man named Gold Cufflinks."
"That's not idiocy. That's efficiency."
Nina laughed. It was a real laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. Caleb watched her, and something in his chest shifted — something he didn't have a name for yet.
---
They sat on the deck after dinner.
The sky was clear, for once. Stars scattered across the black like salt on a dark cloth. The ocean was quiet, just a soft hush of waves against the rocks.
Caleb had the blanket over his lap. Nina had her own blanket — the wool one from Eleanor's house — wrapped around her shoulders.
"Number five," Caleb said. "Let someone see me fall."
"You haven't fallen yet."
"I will. Eventually. Everyone does."
"Maybe. But you'll get back up."
"How do you know?"
"Because you climbed a ladder today. Because you fired your board. Because you called your mother." Nina looked at him. "You're not the kind of person who stays down, Caleb. You never were."
He was quiet for a long time. The stars seemed to get brighter, or maybe his eyes were just adjusting to the dark.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what?"
"About what you said. About the treehouse. About building something that matters." He paused. "I want to build it for someone."
"Who?"
"I don't know yet. Not me. Someone who needs it. Someone who can't build their own."
Nina turned to face him. "Like who?"
"Kids at the hospital. The one in Portland. The pediatric wing." He looked down at his hands. "I spent a lot of time in hospitals as a kid. Visiting my father. They're scary places. Cold. White. Full of machines that beep and people who look tired."
"They are scary."
"I thought — maybe a treehouse. Not here. Somewhere they can go. The kids. A place that doesn't feel like a hospital." He looked at her. "What do you think?"
Nina felt something swell in her chest. Not her heart — something bigger. Something that had to do with hope.
"I think that's the best idea you've had yet."
"You're not just saying that?"
"I'm not just saying that." She reached over and touched his arm. "Caleb, that's — that's beautiful. Building something for kids who are scared. Kids who need to feel like kids, even when they're sick."
Caleb's eyes were bright in the starlight. "You really think I can do it?"
"I know you can. And I'll help."
"You'll help build a treehouse at a children's hospital?"
"I'll help build whatever you need to build. That's what I'm here for."
Caleb looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, very quietly, "I'm glad it's you. Not someone else. You."
Nina didn't know what to say. So she didn't say anything. She just sat there, in the dark, with the stars above and the ocean below, and let herself feel glad too.