He hands her the piece of pine he’s been carving. It’s a small bird, wings spread, mid-flight. She turns it over. On the bottom, in shaky, beautiful script, he has carved three words:
“Don’t plug it in,” Silas says, not looking up from whittling a piece of pine. Lana, holding the lantern’s power cord, freezes. She laughs—a nervous, city-born sound. lana smalls grandpa
Not a kit. Not from a YouTube tutorial. From a stack of cedar planks in the barn and a set of hand-drawn plans his own father used in 1947. They work in the mornings, when the light is golden and the mosquitoes are lazy. He hands her the piece of pine he’s been carving