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He had started this project on our last visit, Christmas two years ago. But we weren’t here for long before the arguing began between Dad and Granddad, like it always did.

Granddad had yelled his usual, something like, “I’m proud of you for fighting for our country, son, but I need someone else here to help me.”

Then Dad had given his typical response: “There are plenty of good workers in Fairfield looking for a job. Hire one of them.”

Granddad would never do that though. He didn’t trust 90 percent of the people in this town. Claimed they were too loyal to the Crowleys.

He may have had a point.

Dad had called it quits on that argument and stormed into the barn, where he worked on this chair until the next morning. In the afternoon, we drove home and left the chair behind. I figured we’d go back for it at some point, finish it, but a couple of months later, Dad got word he’d be in one of the special-ops divisions, and everything changed after that.

I sighed and rocked the chair back and forth. I didn’t want to finish this. Didn’t want the pressure of this season riding on every damn pitch I threw.

Dad should be here to do it. To help Granddad with this season. To help with the farm. With the money problems.

Between the bank statements and all the whispers about them, I didn’t have to be a psychic to know that Granddad and Nana were behind with payments. But what could I do to help?

Winning the tournament for them was one thing, but then I’d leave at the end of the summer. Who would help them after that?

Running a stadium and a farm would be next to impossible for them to do alone, but Granddad would do it, or try to. Because he was so damned stubborn.

Maybe I could put up some “Help Wanted” posters around town while I was here? The library did have a good color printer.

Ben leaned against the open doorway. His hair stood up in every direction, and his eyes had bags under them. What had kept him up all night?

Doubt it was a small wrist tattoo.

“What’s that?” He motioned toward the chair.

“My dad’s. He didn’t finish it before…”

“Before he was deployed?”

I nodded.

Ben rolled his shoulders and walked over to where I stood before he ran his hands over the smooth wood. “So let’s finish it.”

I scoffed. “I don’t know anything about finishing a rocking chair.”

He picked up a couple of small pieces of wood near our feet and held them near the runners. “How hard could it be?”

Ha. I grabbed the small pieces and placed them over the top of the chair where they belonged. “Harder than you think.”

Ben took out his phone and started typing and swiping. Less than a minute later, he had a YouTube video pulled up with instructions. “Easy.”

Easy. Right.

Ben’s solution to almost every problem was to YouTube it. I didn’t want YouTube to fix this, but before I could say no, Ben had already grabbed one of Granddad’s chisels.

“Okay,” I mumbled.

He smiled and started separating the pieces on the floor.

I knew Ben was doing what he always did when I got sad about Dad’s deployments—distracting me. But maybe this time, I didn’t want Ben to be the one to help me fix this.

I wanted my dad. And yeah, maybe a small—hell, foolish—part of me hoped that if I left it incomplete, maybe it would bring Dad home sooner, faster.

Nana walked into the opened doors with pruning shears tucked under her arm and a big, floppy straw hat on her head. “Mornin’.” She placed a couple of protein bars and two bottles of water on one of the tractor seats. “Big game today, eh, boys?”