Sam has to consult the directions she printed off the Internet six times between leaving her house and finally making it out to Cripple Creek; she doesn't get out that far often. Her life is defined by a parabola drawn from the Mountain, arcing outwards and only touching down at a few places. It's going to be wider now, she guesses. Cam's still got his apartment downtown, but she supposes he won't stay there for long, once his lease runs out and he can finish making the new place livable. She's the only one who's seen pictures; Cam insists he isn't going to be one of those obnoxious homeowners who keeps everyone around him bored to tears with the progress of his rehab.

And rehab it is. The land's overgrown -- she goes past the driveway four times, thinking it nothing more than a weed-ridden dirt track. He'd had to explain, as he handed over the pictures, "don't worry, I'll get that tree out of the living room first thing". She'd thought he was crazy -- crazier, when she found out how much he'd paid for it, and how he was planning to spend twice that in stripping the house down to bones and building it back up instead of tearing down and starting fresh. It's going to be a pain in the ass for him, commuting this far once winter sets in. If he can even finish getting it livable by winter. She hopes he has a good architect and really good contractors.

She's touched, more touched than she can say, that she's the first he's asked out to see it. They're on 72 hours downtime, in between running around and saving the world. Maybe he just wanted to come and show off his new place a little.

She's confused for a minute when she finally pulls up to the house, though, because there aren't any contractors around, just a beat-up old pickup truck with 2x4s and tarps in the bed parked next to Cam's little sports car. Maybe he gave the contractors the day off. The July air, hot and damp, hits her in the face as she gets out of the car and studies the front of the house. It's an old farmhouse, whitewashed sides faded grungy and dirty over the years; someone's pulled off half the shingles and dropped them in the dumpster that's sitting right next to the porch steps, and there's a crowbar leaning against the wall right next to the door, waiting to be put to further use. The fallen tree's been removed from the living room, and there's a tarp spread out, tacked up to cover the hole it left. A pile of 2x4s and roofing shingles on the porch outside it indicate that repairs are probably the next step. It's a disaster, and -- looking at it -- she thinks: it's utterly perfect. She can imagine generations of children running through its halls, shrieking and shouting while the women gossiped in the kitchens and the menfolk worked their way through the fields. It doesn't feel like a house. It feels like a home.

The front door's off its hinges. She can hear Springsteen drifting in from somewhere in the house: Roy Orbison's singing "For the Lonely", hey, that's me and I want you only... Cam's voice, singing along, carefree, with a hammer pounding in time. "Cam?" she calls, stepping gingerly across the porch; it doesn't look like it'll necessarily support her weight. The place looks one step up from being condemned, and the scary thing is, this is an improvement.

She hears a bang, then a muffled curse, and then he calls out, "In here. Through to the back."

The inside looks better than the outside, but that's not saying much. She cranes her neck as she makes her way through. Living room's still a disaster, but on the other side of the hallway -- is that a formal parlor? She squints and can practically see the piano sitting against the walls, the young man nervously sitting on the sofa, courting the daughter of the house -- the walls look brand-new, fresh plaster, and plywood floors wait to be covered with hardwood. She steps around the pile of dusty, battered moulding in the hallway, which looks to be the entire remnants of the original woodwork that could be salvaged, and follows the strains of the Boss back into what's probably the dining room.

And stops, because Cam's kneeling in the far corner of the room. He's shirtless -- well, that makes sense; it's ridiculously hot in here, even though the windows are no more than empty holes in the walls where panes of glass once rested -- and he's wearing a pair of jeans that are loose and battered and faded, holes in the knees and paint smeared everywhere on them. There's a tool belt, riding low on his hips. He's got a prybar slung through it, and his mouth is full of nails, and he's painstakingly fitting another strip of wood into place against the bare studs of the far wall and hammering it in.

"Wow," she says, because she can't think of anything else to say. He looks up and grins at her; it makes him lose a nail, and he catches it with a practiced hand and spits out the other two.

"Less of a disaster every day," he says, cheerfully, and reaches over to turn down the music. "What do you think?"

"You're doing all of this by yourself," she says. Not quite a question. "I thought you would hire --"

"Naw," he says. "Couldn't find anyone who'd treat her like she deserves to be treated. It's a tragedy what they let happen to this house."

She looks around, carefully. Recognizes the signs of patient love and care: the floor in here is still the original, with the rotting boards prised out, and she knows full well what a bitch it's going to be to match the same type and quality of wood with what's commercially available; they're cutting hardwood flooring more narrow these days, and it'd be easier and cheaper to pull up the whole thing and start fresh. And she realizes something else, as he lifts another wood strip into place and nails. "You're not using sheetrock."

"Nope," he says. "Lath and plaster. You can see it in the parlor -- finished those walls two weekends ago. They'll be drying for a bit, still. I'm hoping to get the plaster in here next weekend, if we're lucky."

Lath-and-plaster fell out of use in construction decades ago; sheetrock is cheaper, faster, and easier. She squints at the other walls in the room; they mostly look undamaged, which is a miracle. "Why --"

"Because I want it to match," he says. "I'm not rehabbing. I'm restoring." He finishes nailing in the board and sits back on his heels. "Saved the moulding from in here, most of it. Gonna have to recut some, but I've got a guy down in Pueblo who specializes in restoration woodwork, and he says he can match it. This room was pretty decent. Best outta all of 'em, really. You should see how bad the upstairs is."

"It's going to take you forever," she says. "There's no way this place is going to be livable by the time your lease runs out."

"Nope," he agrees. "I'm thinking two, three years. Could have it done faster, but I like doing it myself. Be able to look at it and be more satisfied that way."

She's been wondering why he was renting, instead of buying. She'd been thinking of it as a declaration of impermanence, like he hadn't decided he was sticking around, like he hadn't been willing to commit. To her. To them. To this life. Like it was one giant trial period, always one step away from saying this isn't working out.

She hadn't thought of it as waiting until he had the time, the money, the chance to put down roots and do it right.

He's studying her face. "What do you think?" he asks. "I know it doesn't look like much right now, but --"

"It's perfect," she blurts. It is; it's got history, vitality, in a way new construction wouldn't. She's always loved farmhouses (a flash, briefly, of a construct in her mind, Pete melting into Fifth; a sun-drenched kitchen, an early morning -- she puts it aside) and she can see, now, the shape and outline of a magnificent one taking form under Cam's patient hands. This room will catch the late-afternoon light, she thinks. She can imagine a big old wooden table in the center, scarred with years of use, covered with a hand-embroidered tablecloth sent from Cam's momma. Bowl of apples sitting in the middle, maybe, or some fresh-cut flowers from the garden outside. When he finishes it, it's going to be stunning. And his, through and through, every inch. He's going to be able to look at it and see hours of sweat and love running through every wall, every floor.

He's still watching her. Looking for something, maybe. He bites his lip. "Thought maybe you might want to give me a hand," he says, quietly. "Awfully big project for just one guy."

There's something more, something deeper, underneath. Something so big she can barely catch a glimpse of it, and it should scare the hell out of her, but instead it makes her want to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he's real.

He's not just talking about the house.

"Let me see the plans," she says, and he smiles like sunrise, and she thinks: it's been a long damn time, but maybe this is coming home.

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