I’m Evelyn, a 74-year-old widow of nearly a decade. While cutting the hedges in the garden, my husband Richard unexpectedly died of a heart attack. He was complaining about the weeds one minute, and then he was gone. Just me and this ancient, creaking house—no children, no family left.

I’ve kept myself occupied, which is humorous in a sadistic sense. Nothing fills the need, not even my bread, my roses, or the volunteer shifts at the library where the children roll their eyes when I suggest Dickens. You hear things in that silence.

The groan of old beams and the drip-drip-drip of water through a roof that I’ve been too poor to restore are two ways the house whispers its degradation.

I used to lie awake throughout every storm, gripping my quilt and gazing up at the ceiling. Would it finally give way tonight? Would my shingles be damp when I woke up?

I finally managed to find a small roofing company this spring and scraped together enough money for repairs. They appeared to be a little harsh. There were men with tattoos, cigarettes hanging down, and what Richard would have called “trouble in steel-toe boots.”

But don’t judge me, Evelyn, I told myself. You don’t need a choirboy; you need a roof.

The bass roaring from their pickup made my roses shudder the morning they pulled into my driveway. Boots weighing heavily on the gravel, four of them piled out.

The first person who caught my attention was Joseph; he was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and had hair too long for a roofing job, but he gave me a gentle regard. His head tipped, “Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “We’ll get you taken care of.”

I grinned. “Thank you, my love. “Call me Evelyn.”

Josh then arrived, swaggering and boisterous as if he owned the area. “Where is the entrance? Here, daylight is burning.” Before yelling at the others to unload, he hardly gave me a glance.

“This roof’s a nightmare already,” mumbled Kevin, tall and slender with a cigarette pressed to his mouth, before he had even climbed onto the ladder. Then there was Matt. He was steady-eyed and neutral, but his quiet didn’t reassure. He appeared to float like vapor after the others.

In any case, I chose to play hostess. Old habits don’t go away easily. I took out a platter of cheese and turkey sandwiches and a jug of lemonade at midday.

Joseph’s expression brightened like a Christmas boy’s. “You didn’t have to do this, ma’am.”