their outlines, each one traced in black marker so you’d know where it went back. The coffee can full of nails. The radio, still tuned to the beach music station. A half-finished birdhouse on the bench, waiting.
Cullen stood in the middle of it all and didn’t move.
Then he walked to the pegboard and touched the outline of a hammer. The hammer was still in it. The same one Nile handed him when he was twelve.
“He drew these,” Cullen said. “I remember him drawing these. I thought it
