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I wipe my brow and look down at the scattered, broken power tools lying at my feet. This is the fourth time this has happened in the past month since we started framing. My guys sometimes keep their tools in one of the old outbuildings that survived the fire that destroyed the main house, but lately some strange stuff has been happening.
I look up at Jose, my framer, who’s standing with his arms crossed a few feet away. He gives me a shrug.
“You check the cameras?” I ask, motioning to the outbuilding–nothing more than a decaying shed that’s probably as old as my grandparents, who are well into their nineties.
“Nothing. Not even a raccoon. And the padlock was still on the door.”
I run my tongue along my lower teeth. s**t.
I nudge one of the drills with my foot. It’s melted,
