They talked and drank coffee, watching as I sanded dirt, mold, and the worst of the cracked and peeling paint off the door. Others came and went as well, while my shoulders cramped and my clothes became covered in a thin film of green powder.

People like to watch other people work. There's something soothing in seeing someone use their hands and muscles to make a thing beautiful. They'll stop to watch someone build a chair or brick a wall or paint a door, and the sale on books gave them a good excuse. They took books and put money in the canister I'd set out for it and hung around criticizing my technique with the sanding block until I'd finished.

The end result was, if not attractive, at least smooth enough to hold a few more coats evenly. Some day that poor sad piece of wood was going to crack from all the weathering and sanding and probably the bugs living in it, but it hadn't yet.

When I'd finished sanding, I wrapped my sore red hands in rags and reached for an empty bucket, pouring equal amounts primer and brand-new paint into it. Even watered down with grayish primer, the first layer looked nice against the previous year's old coat, streaked here and there where the wood showed through from sanding. I put the primer on with a roller, ignoring the door's little fiddly bevels and edges for now.

"How many times today has someone asked you if you're painting a door?"

The question came just before lunch time, as I was sitting on the ground with one leg splayed and the other drawn up against my chest, finishing off the bottom. Lucas, of course.

"Numbers untold," I answered. "Buy a book?"

"I own one already, thanks," he replied. He sat sideways on the steps, his back against the porch roof's support post. I looked at him over my shoulder. His eyes were a little less fever-brilliant and his nose was definitely closer to the right color.

"You're on the mend," I said.

"I am. The boy said the food was put on your account."

"I didn't think you had one," I answered.

"No...that would require speaking to the grocer," he said with a small smile. Two elderly women came up the walk and he drew his legs against his chest tightly, though there was plenty of room for them to pass already. They began to pick over the books on the shelves, glancing at me occasionally. They deposited a few dollars, took some dusty science-fiction novels, and waved as they departed.

"Is there any reason for such...meticulous caution?" I asked, when they were gone. Lucas didn't bother asking what I meant.

"Not what you could call reason," he said with a shrug. "I just don't like talking to people. Does the green help the door at all, or is it only decoration?"

"The paint helps, but it comes in a variety of colors," I replied. "I don't believe it has any particular qualities, green."

"It's unusual," he pointed out.

"It's cheerful. People like it," I said, spilling paint on the dropcloth under the door as I gave the edge one last swipe. I dropped the roller into a bucket of paint thinner, stretched, and stood up. My spine cracked, rolling up from hips to shoulders, satisfyingly loud and solid. The paint at the top was already drying, but it could wait a while before the next coat. "Is it time for lunch yet?"

"More or less." He held up an envelope and offered it to me without standing. He looked tense and uncertain, perched on the edge of the porch, not quite looking at me. "I estimated. If there's any extra, you could open an account for me here," he said, as I counted the money in the envelope.

"I'll find out – I didn't ask," I replied. "This is about right, probably. Come and have lunch, if you want."

"The cafe?" He looked apprehensively at the very crowded cafe across the street.

"No – I have food upstairs," I said. I left the books out but collected the money-tin, setting it on the counter inside. Lucas followed me upstairs, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"This is where you live?" he asked, as I stripped the rags off my hands, running them under the hot water for what good it would do.

"Home sweet home." I nodded at the room beyond the kitchen, which served as both living room and bedroom.

"I like it," he said.

"It works. I don't spend much time here."

"Why not? It's nice."

"It's small," I replied. "I like my store better. Besides, I can't really see people from here unless I look out the window."

"What's so awful about that?"

"I don't like looking down to people. It reminds me of the city. You probably understand that, don't you?"

He leaned against the counter. "I don't think you left the city for the same reasons I did."

"You don't mind looking down."

"I prefer not having to look at all."

I took out a package of turkey, setting it on the counter between us. "Sandwiches?"

"That sounds fine."

"There's bread in the cupboard on your left."

He turned to his right for a moment, then stopped and turned the other direction, finding the bread without too much difficulty.