The builder sits on a crate of drywall, his back against the studs that still bear the grey dust of the saw.

The builder sits on a crate of drywall, his back against the studs that still bear the grey dust of the saw. He is eating from a plastic container of pasta; the sauce has congealed into a dull, ochre crust around the edges. A single noodle hangs from his chin, trembling slightly before dropping into the plastic.

Outside, the tall grass of the lot ripples in a flat heat wave, but inside, the air is stagnant, smelling of sawdust and wet lime. He doesn’t look at the windows. He looks at the floorboards—unfinished, raw timber that hasn't yet been sanded smooth. A bead of sweat tracks through the grit on his forearm, carving a clean line in the grey silt.

He stops chewing. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette, but doesn't light it. He just holds it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the dry texture of the paper against his skin.

On the kitchen counter—a skeletal frame of plywood—lies a heap of discarded breadcrumbs and a smear of grease from a sandwich eaten earlier. The house is meant to hold a family, but for now, it only holds the weight of the tools left on the floor and the slow, rhythmic sound of his own swallowing. He wipes his mouth with a sleeve that is stiff with plaster. The silence in the room isn't empty; it is heavy, packed tight like insulation. He stands up, the crate shifting, and leaves the container on the ledge. The sauce remains, cooling into a permanent stain.