Page 27 of Catcher

I swap the bike for my truck and climb in. The drive across the river takes a little longer because of traffic, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to settle into the day.

By the time I pull up to the site, it’s already alive.

Hammers.

Saws.

Voices calling out measurements.

The house is nearly finished—two bedrooms, a front porch, and a small backyard. Nothing fancy, just solid with good bones.

I grab my tool belt and strap it on just as Everest pulls up in the van and climbs out. “Mornin’,” he calls.

“Mornin’,” I answer, stepping forward.

Four boys pile out, stretching and cracking jokes, half awake, trying to look alert.

He glances at the house, then back at me. “Lookin’ good.”

“Yeah,” I say, following his gaze. “Comin’ together.”

He nods once, then jerks his chin toward the kids. “They’re ready.”

I look them over, shake each hand, and make them meet my eyes. “Ready to work?” I ask, my voice just loud enough to grab their attention.

They exchange looks.

“Today you’re gofers. That means whatever the crew needs… tools, lumber, water, cleanup, you get it done. No slacking, no whining, no standing around.”

One of them nods quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Everest crosses his arms. “You stay busy, you learn somethin’. You stand around, I’ll find somethin’ harder for you to do. Got it?”

That gets a couple of nervous grins.

“Get with Darren over there by the white truck,” I add, jerking my chin toward Darren’s direction. “He’s the one you listen to today.”

The kids nod, more focused now, and head to Darren. He sees me, assigns them work, then walks over, wiping his hands on a rag. Darren’s built homes longer than most stick to anything. Mid-sixties, solid, weathered face, he’s seen what matters. He built this whole company from nothing. The organization started in the back of his pickup truck, with a handful of volunteers. Now it’s a full crew, steady builds, donations, and partnerships.

His business, Landry Construction, builds homes for people who don’t get anything handed to them—just a shot, a hand up, not a handout. His motto is, “We build more than homes. We build second chances.”

“We got the roof left,” he says, nodding at the structure. “Trusses are set. Want to help finish it out?”

“You got it.”

Two years back, the club met Darren at a fundraiser for one of the community food banks. He was looking for a few more volunteers. Wasn’t much said, just that I knew my way around a construction site and was good at following orders. He gave me an address, and the following weekend, I showed up with my own tools and got to work.

Didn’t stop showing up after that.

Darren didn’t ask questions. He saw my skills and gradually gave me more responsibility. Volunteering kept my hands occupied and my mind busy.

By the time the sun starts to dip, we’re wrapping up. Tools get set down, voices go quiet, and for today, work is done.

I climb down from the roof, rolling my shoulders as I take off my gloves while Darren approaches with someone beside him. “Catcher, this is Marcus,” he says. The man steps forward, appearing to be in his mid-thirties. He reaches out, and we shake hands. His hands are rough, work hands. “This home is for Marcus and his girls,” Darren adds.

Marcus looks at the house as though he’s not sure it’s real. “Been watchin’ y’all build it,” he says, voice low, rough, but grateful.

I reach into the cooler, grab two beers, and hand him one. He hesitates before taking it. I hold his gaze. “Welcome home, brother,” I tell him.