Pete Sanger, 63 years old and still the most reliable site supervisor I had ever employed.
Young Marcus Tilman, 26, whose father Calvin had worked beside me for 11 years before a construction accident took him, a man whose boy I had quietly helped through a 2-year program at community college, because Calvin Tilman had given me his best years, and his family deserved to know that meant something.
And standing slightly to the side, holding a folder, was Clark Donovan, who had driven 40 minutes from his home on a Thanksgiving evening, because I had asked him to be here, and because in 17 years he had never once needed a second reason.
Five men on my porch.
Every one of them had come without hesitating.
“Come in,” I said.
They came in.
The living room was not large enough for everyone comfortably, which meant the holtz pressed back toward the dining room doorway, and Trey and Candace stood side by side near the armchair, and my five men stood near the front windows with the easy, unhurried posture of people who were exactly where they intended to be.
