Turn 37 of 233

Outperform Walt's high expectations for me. Weigh myself at home. I am 215 at 6'3"

Tuesday the roofing goes up in a single day. Lena has the trusses set by nine — she called the crane operator the night before, confirmed the delivery window, and had the staging area cleared and the lift points marked before Walt arrived on site. By noon the sheathing is down and Marco is running the tar paper and Lena is on the ridge checking the overhang measurements with a chalk line and a speed square, her bare feet gripping the plywood, the wind pulling at her belly. Walt watches from the ground and doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The roof is square and tight and done in six hours.

Wednesday she runs the sub schedule. The electrician arrives at seven and Lena walks him through the plan — panel location, runs, the three can lights in the kitchen that the prints show but that she knows from talking to Walt will need to move because the client changed the island dimensions last week. She caught it Monday. The electrician, a stocky guy named Phil who has been wiring houses for twenty years, looks at her and looks at the plan and says, "You already moved the runs," and Lena says, "I marked them last night," and Phil nods and gets to work. The plumber shows at ten and Lena has the bathroom rough-in layout ready and the vent paths clear and the drain drops measured and the plumber — a woman named Connie with forearms like cable — looks at the layout and says, "Who did this," and Lena says, "I did," and Connie says, "It's good," and that is the end of that conversation.

Thursday is siding. Lena has the material order in by Wednesday afternoon — she called the supplier herself, confirmed the color and the quantity, negotiated the delivery time so the pallets land at the south side of the lot where the crew can stage without blocking the sub access. The siding goes up in a day and a half because Lena has Daryl and Ray cutting while she and Marco hang and Frank runs the J-channel and the whole operation moves like a machine that has been timed and balanced. Walt stands at the perimeter and watches and his arms are crossed and his face has the expression of a man who expected competence and is getting something more than that.

Friday afternoon the house is buttoned up. Roofing, siding, rough-in coordination — all of it done in four days. Lena walks the site at three o'clock with a clipboard and checks every opening, every seam, every measurement. She finds one piece of J-channel that's a quarter-inch proud and pulls it and re-seats it herself, on her knees in the dirt, her belly pressing against the ground, the hammer ringing. When she stands up Walt is standing ten feet away with his hands in his pockets.

"Sub schedule was clean," he says. "Material order was right. Phil told me you caught the kitchen runs before he had to re-pull. Connie said your rough-in layout was the best she's seen this year."

Lena waits. She doesn't say anything. She lets him get there on his own.

"Next two houses," Walt says. "You're running them. I'll be on site but they're yours. Your name goes on the sign."

Lena nods. Walt nods. They don't shake hands because that's not how this works — you don't shake on something that was already earned. He walks away and Lena stands in the dirt with the clipboard and the hammer and the weight of the week settling into her bones, her body thrumming with the particular satisfaction of having done the thing and done it well.

Friday night she walks home in the late light, her feet black with site dirt, her belly full of the three burritos she ate at lunch, her body humming with exhaustion and achievement. She strips at the door and walks to the bathroom and stands on the scale. The digital readout blinks and settles: 215. She looks down at the number — at her bare feet on the white plastic, at the golden belly that extends past the edge of the scale, at the body hair and the tan and the dirt — and she feels the number land in her chest like a warm stone. Forty-eight pounds. She has gained forty-eight pounds since the wish and her body is stronger and faster and more capable than it has ever been and the number on the scale is not a warning. It is a waypoint.

She steps off the scale and looks at herself in the mirror — the full height of her, six-three and two-fifteen, tanned and hairy and dirty and muscled and soft and enormous and strong — and she rests her hand on her belly and the thought that moves through her is not the wish's voice. It is her own. More, she thinks. Keep going.