Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“No, no, no!”
I was balancing on the second-highest rung of our ancient library ladder, one arm stretched towards the heavens like a supplicant in prayer, the other white-knuckling the side rail.
The carefully constructed stack of mythology books I’d been arranging on the top shelf of the display cabinet had just collapsed in a papery avalanche, raining down Greek gods and Japanese yokai alike.
“Stupid ladder,” I muttered, feeling it wobble beneath me. “Stupid display. Stupid—”
My phone buzzed in my cardigan pocket, nearly startling me off my precarious perch. I scrambled down, ungraceful but intact, and fished out my phone, already knowing who it would be.
Rion: Did you reinforce the cross-bracing as suggested?
I glanced at the ladder, which I had indeed attempted to stabilize following his instructions from yesterday. Apparently, my execution left something to be desired.
I tried. But I think I need more specific instructions. Or an engineering degree. Or possibly both.
I snapped a picture of my amateur reinforcement attempt—two pieces of wood I’d scavenged from the storage room, awkwardly attached with a combination of duct tape and what I hoped was wood glue but might have been ancient paste from the children’s craft supplies.
The three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, then reappeared for a longer time than usual. I could almost feel his dismay radiating through the phone.
Finally…
That is not what I described.
I couldn’t help but smile at the understated horror in those five words.
I know. I’m working with limited resources here. The library budget doesn’t exactly have a ‘ladder crisis’ contingency fund.
Three dots. Pause. Three dots again.
Do you have access to proper wood screws? That adhesive appears to be Elmer’s glue.
I squinted at the tube I’d used. He was right. I’d grabbed the wrong one in my haste.
I can probably find some. There’s a maintenance closet that might have actual tools instead of kindergarten supplies.
Good. And proper screws, not nails. The vibration from the ladder’s movement will loosen nails over time.
Who was this person? A construction worker who moonlighted as a physics professor? A carpenter with an engineering hobby?
The question had been circling my mind since our first exchange.
In the absence of actual information, I’d begun constructing a variety of mental images.
Perhaps he was tall and lanky, with calloused hands and serious eyes.
The kind of man who built things with quiet exactitude, measuring twice and cutting once, as the saying went.
Or maybe he was older, silver-haired and weathered, the type who’d been building things since before I was born and had forgotten more about structural integrity than I’d ever know.
The fantasies were harmless, I told myself. Just my brain’s way of putting a face to the name. A very human face.
“Clara? Are you communing with the books again or can I borrow you for a moment?”
I looked up to find Brenda watching me with amused exasperation. I quickly pocketed my phone.
“Sorry, just trying to figure out this ladder situation.”
“Ah,” she said knowingly. “Consulting with your mystery builder again?”
“He has a name now,” I informed her with as much dignity as I could muster. “Rion.”
“Rion,” she repeated, testing the name. “Unusual. Short for something?”
I shrugged. “He didn’t elaborate.”
“Of course not,” Brenda said, her eyes twinkling. “Why use ten words when two will suffice? Now, when you’re done with your structural consultations, we have a small flood in the reference section that needs addressing.”
“A flood? How—”
“Mr. Perkins knocked over his thermos. Again. Third time this month.”
I sighed. “I’ll get the paper towels.”
By lunchtime, the reference section was mostly dry, the mythological creatures were sorted by cultural region (though still not on the top shelf where they belonged), and I had acquired a surprising array of actual tools from the maintenance closet.
I spread them out on the break room table, examining my bounty: a screwdriver with interchangeable bits, an assortment of screws, a small hammer, and—most exciting of all—a level. I hadn’t even known we had a level.
I snapped a picture and sent it to Rion with the caption: Treasure hunt successful. Now what?
His response came as I was unwrapping my sandwich.
Good. I’ll send detailed instructions. Follow precisely.
So commanding. So terse. It should have been annoying, but instead I found it oddly endearing. There was something refreshing about his directness, his complete lack of social niceties or digital small talk.
True to his word, a minute later my phone buzzed with a lengthy text detailing exactly how to reinforce the ladder’s cross-bracing, complete with suggestions for optimal screw placement and warnings about potential weak points.
I studied it, my sandwich forgotten. The instructions were clear, precise, and written with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were talking about.
You must really know your way around a workshop.
Yes.
I waited, but nothing more came. No elaboration, no personal details offered in return. Just that single, confident affirmation.
I decided to probe a little. So you build things often? Professionally?
A longer pause this time.
I am currently constructing a significant project with complex structural requirements.
Now we were getting somewhere! What kind of project?
Another pause, longer than the last.
A series of interconnected passageways and chambers. The design must be both mathematically sound and aesthetically pleasing.
I blinked at my phone. That sounded… impressive. And vague. A series of interconnected passageways? Was he building some kind of fancy house? A museum installation? An escape room?
Sounds complicated. Are you an architect?
Not exactly. But I understand structure and design.
Again, that confidence. That certainty. No hedging, no self-deprecation, no “well, I’m not formally trained but…”
Well, I’m grateful for your expertise. The ladder fix will have to wait until after closing, but I’ll let you know how it goes.
I sent the message, then impulsively added: What got you interested in building things?
The reply took so long I’d finished my lunch and returned to the circulation desk before it came:
Necessity.
One word. No elaboration. Just… necessity.
What kind of necessity led someone to develop expert-level knowledge of structural engineering? The word conjured images of someone building shelter in harsh conditions, or perhaps growing up in a household where things were always breaking and needed repair.
The mystery of Rion deepened, and with it, my curiosity.
The library closed at six, but it was nearly seven by the time I’d shooed out the last lingering patrons and locked the front doors. Now it was just me, the books, and a rickety ladder waiting for emergency surgery.
I’d changed into jeans I kept in my locker for shelving days, not wanting to attempt ladder repair in a skirt. With Rion’s instructions pulled up on my phone and the tools laid out beside me, I set to work.
The process was more challenging than I’d anticipated. The old ladder, despite its decrepit state, stubbornly resisted my amateur repair attempts. The wood was harder than I expected, the angles awkward, and my inexperience with power tools painfully evident.
After thirty minutes of struggling, I sent Rion a frustrated update.
This is harder than it looks. The screws won’t go in straight and I think I’m making it worse.
His reply was immediate.
Are you pre-drilling the holes?
I stared at my phone.
Pre-drilling what holes?
The three dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared several times, as if he was writing, deleting, and rewriting his response. Finally:
“You need to create pilot holes with a small drill bit before inserting the screws. Otherwise, the wood will split and the repair will fail.”
I looked at my tool collection. No drill.
“No drill in the maintenance closet. Any other suggestions?”
Another pause.
“Use the smallest nail you have and the hammer to create pilot holes. Be precise with your angle.”
It was worth a try. I selected the thinnest nail I could find, positioned it carefully, and tapped it with the hammer to create a small indent. Then, holding my breath, I removed the nail and attempted to insert the screw.
To my surprise and delight, it went in smoothly, the wood accepting it without resistance.
“It worked!” I texted, feeling disproportionately proud of this tiny victory.
“Continue with the remaining connection points,” came the reply. “Send a picture when complete.”
I followed his instructions methodically, pre-drilling each hole and carefully inserting the screws exactly as directed. The work was slow and meticulous, but I found an unexpected satisfaction in following precise instructions and seeing immediate results.
Ninety minutes later, sweaty and with several minor scratches on my hands, I stood back to admire my handiwork.
The ladder looked… well, it still looked old and somewhat dubious, but the cross-bracing was now securely attached, and the whole structure felt significantly sturdier when I gave it an experimental shake.
I snapped a picture and sent it to Rion.
“Finished! What do you think?”
His response took longer this time, as if he was carefully examining my work.
“Acceptable for a temporary solution. The bottom right connection could be more secure. But it should hold for your display needs.”
I felt a ridiculous surge of pride at his assessment. “Acceptable” from Rion seemed equivalent to effusive praise from anyone else.
“Thank you,” I typed. “I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
“You executed the repair correctly,” he replied, which I chose to interpret as “you’re welcome.”
Feeling bold from my success, I added: “So, tell me more about your project with the interconnected passageways. Sounds fascinating.”