One week later
I stand at the dining table, leaning forward on my palms as I pour over the thick architectural drafting paper spread across the surface. Heavy brass weights hold down the stubborn, curling edges.
"If we clear out the built-in shelving along the east wall," I say, tracing a fingertip along the penciled lines. "The crib can sit right in the center bay. It’ll get the morning light, but it won't be in the direct line of the draft from the balcony."
"East wall works," Locke says. "I checked the stud layout yesterday. Wall anchors will hold five hundred pounds easily. Nothing's moving that frame once I bolt it down."
"It's a baby crib, Locke, not a mooring cleat for a battleship."
"Same difference. I’m building it for our kid, so it gets built to survive a goddamn hurricane.
