He dreamed of flying.
Every day he stayed home, sequestered himself in his workshop, and pursued his dream.
He considered himself the Noah of the twenty-first century. The global flood was coming, and he would live in the sky.
But he was not this era’s Noah: he was its Daedalus.
A bubbling creek wended its way through the sun-dappled wood, between the wild apple trees and the bushes drooping with juicy purple berries.
An inquisitive fawn dipped its tongue into the creek and pulled away with a frightened bleat.
Upstream, where the beavers built and warred, the bricked-in bayou boiled.
He poured concrete. He laid bricks. He hammered nails into wood.
He stapled tar paper. He put up siding. He packed insulation into the walls.
He spread out shingles. He rented a truck. He carried boxes. He painted. He assembled furniture.
Then his wife walked out.
He sold the house.