Turn 158 of 233

Call Sina and tell her Kimo drove a nail flush. Skip to 4 month appointment. Kimo is 44 pounds now and is 34 inches long. He crawls faster than some people run and he speaks more words now.

The phone call to Sina is short because Sina is the kind of woman who does not need long. Lena calls from the truck before the drive home and Kimo is in the car seat humming and the humming is the soundtrack of every call now.

"He drove a nail," Lena says. The saying is simple and the simple is the way she says things to Sina because Sina does not need the architecture of the sentence.

"What."

"A nail. In a stud. Flush. The nail gun — I held it, he pulled the trigger. Twice. Both flush. Walt checked with his thumb."

The line is quiet and the quiet is the quiet of a woman who has been running with Lena for months and knows what flush means and knows what Walt's thumb means and the knowing is the processing. Sina breathes once. The breathing is the breathing of a woman who is recalibrating.

"He's three months old, Lena."

"Three months and change."

"Three months and change and he drove a nail flush."

"Two nails."

Sina doesn't say anything for five seconds and the five seconds are the five seconds of a woman who has a son who is eight and didn't hold a tool until he was four. The five seconds end and Sina laughs and the laugh is the laugh Lena knows — the full bark that comes from the place where Sina keeps the things that crack her open. The laugh is loud and bright and the bright is the bright of a woman who is not jealous and the not jealous is the love.

"Of course he did," Sina says. "Of course he did."

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Four weeks pass the way four weeks pass on a construction site — in lumber and concrete and the steady accumulation of a boy growing. Kimo crawls every day and the crawling is faster now and the faster is the thing the crew tracks without tracking it. He crosses the pad in under twenty seconds. He crosses the balcony in under forty. He moves from the trailer to the lumber stack in the time it takes Marco to load the nail gun and the loading is the thing Marco has always been fast at and the boy is faster. Daryl stages a load of two-by-tens on the far side of the pad and Kimo is there before Daryl finishes the stack and the finishing is the thing that makes Daryl step back and shake his head and the shaking is not disbelief. The shaking is the shaking of a man who has accepted.

The words come. Not fast — not the way the crawling came, not the way the growth came — but they come. Big is still the first and the most used and the most used is at Lena and at lumber and at the forklift and at anything that takes up space in the world. But the new words arrive in the gaps between crawling and sleeping and the gaps are the places where Kimo looks at something and the mouth opens and the sound is a word. Up — directed at the wall frames, at the headers, at anything vertical. More — directed at the bottles of milk Lena brings to the site in the cooler, the word repeated until the bottle is in his hands. Hot — directed at the concrete at midday, at the coffee steam from the tailgate, at the afternoon sun on the pad. The words are single and clear and the clear is the clarity of a boy who says what he means and means what he says and the saying is the structure.

The four-month appointment is a Wednesday. Dr. Parekh's office at ten and the scale is the scale and the scale is the scale that measures Kimo and Kimo is on the scale. The number is 44 pounds and the number is above every chart and above every line Dr. Parekh has and the above is the above that is Kimo's alone.

"44 pounds," Dr. Parekh says. The voice is the voice of a man who stopped being surprised three months ago and the stopping is not resignation. The stopping is the acceptance of a man who is watching a boy build a curve that doesn't exist in any textbook.

"34 inches. He's grown seven inches in a month."

"He crawls," Lena says. "Fast. He crosses a construction pad in under twenty seconds. He speaks four words now. Big, up, more, hot. He uses them at the right things."

Dr. Parekh writes and the writing is the writing of a man who is building a chart and the chart is the chart that is Kimo's. The pen moves fast and the fast is the fast of a doctor who has more to write than he has ever had to write for a four-month-old and the more is the thing he has learned to expect.

"His motor control is at a twelve-month level," Dr. Parekh says.

"Minimum. The crawling speed — you're telling me he crosses twenty feet in under twenty seconds? That's faster than some adults walk. The vocabulary — four words at four months, used in context, directed appropriately — that's eight to twelve-month territory. His growth rate has actually accelerated since the last visit. Seven inches in a month. Ten pounds in a month. I've been practicing for nineteen years and I've never seen a child like this."

"His own chart," Lena says.

"His own chart," Dr. Parekh says. The echo is the echo they share now and the sharing is the structure and the structure holds.

"Keep doing what you're doing. Bring him back in a month. I want to track the growth rate more closely — if it's accelerating, we need to understand why."

Kimo is on the exam table and the boy is crawling and the crawling is the thing Dr. Parekh watches for ten seconds and the ten seconds are the ten seconds of a man who is watching a four-month-old move across an exam table faster than he should and the watching is the watching of a man who has accepted. Lena catches him at the edge and the catching is the catching of a mother who is always catching and the always is the structure and the structure holds.