when we started. He hated it. He wanted to be at the pool in Wilmington with his friends, not pulling nails out of old boards.
But Nile made him do it anyway.
“Someday this is going to be yours, buddy,” he’d say, handing Cullen a hammer. “You should know what’s holding it up.”
The last thing Nile did, the summer of 2002, was paint the front door.
He chose the color himself at the hardware store in Surf City. A bright, clear blue. He called it “Del’s eyes.” I told
