Daddy's big tool box CRASHES face-down. Screws, nails, and washers spray across the concrete floor. Huckle drops his hammer.
He scrambles on his knees, scooping the scattered metal into his apron pockets. Clink, clink, clink goes the hardware against canvas.
Pockets bulging and jingling, he yells, 'These will finish the birdhouse!' and bolts through the open garage door into the sun.
In the sun-warmed backyard, the little blue birdhouse waits on Daddy's workbench. Three round holes bored. The roof board unnailed. A square of fresh-sanded wood gleams.
Huckle dumps his apron pockets onto the bench. A small river of silver slips across the grain. Ting-ting-ting, like loose coins.
'I got the short ones AND the long ones!' He crows, holding up a fat Phillips-head screw to the light.
Daddy pins the roof board steady with one knee. Huckle drives the first screw with the stubby yellow driver. It cross-threads. Groans. WEDGES.
Huckle twists harder. The hole strips clean. He stumbles straight into a tower of rust-streaked paint cans that go CRASH-clatter to the floor. 'Okay,' Daddy says, sliding a fresh screw into his open palm. 'Next hole.'
The final screw seats with a deep, solid THUNK. Huckle presses his flat palm against the rough roof, reading every ring of grain. Daddy grabs his wrist, pulls him close. THWACK — the biggest high-five kicks up golden sawdust in the sunset.
The blue birdhouse nods gently on its oak branch. A small brown sparrow tilts its head, hops twice, and slides through the tiny hole with a soft shff. In the darkening air, Huckle's fingers curl around Daddy's. 'She's home.'