Chapter 8: The Desperate Summons
In early August, the heat over central Ohio hung thick and humid, baking the cornfields until the tassels were dry as paper.
Thomas Miller’s twelve-year-old sedan broke down twice on the long drive south from Dublin, its radiator hissing steam as it finally pulled onto the gravel apron outside the Scioto Valley timber mill.
Thomas stepped out into the dust, wearing an ill-fitting polo shirt and polyester trousers that were stained with sweat. His hair was completely white now, his face lined with the deep, hollow exhaustion of financial panic.
He had spent three weeks tracking down his son through public municipal construction filings in Ross County.
Through the wide, open doors of the timber framing shed, the rhythmic, powerful ring of heavy framing mallets echoed into the afternoon air.
Thomas walked toward the threshold, stopping in the sawdust.
Inside, Lucas stood at the central eighty-foot assembly bed, surrounded by six young apprentices. He wore a heavy canvas work apron over a faded indigo chambray shirt, holding a two-foot steel framing square as he verified the plumb line of a massive King-post truss.
He looked healthy, broad-shouldered, and radiating a calm, authoritative dignity that Thomas had never seen in him before.
""Lucas,"" Thomas called out, his voice cracking with a strained, desperate tremor.
May you like
Lucas paused, set his framing square on the timber, and looked toward the doorway.
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