She's not in tears yet, but you're close enough to hear her try to crank the scooter's engine for the third time.
You set your bag in the car, and walk back towards the admin building and the corner of the lot where she's the only scooter left.
"Come on mom, pick up the phone."
She drops the phone back in her bag just as you come up to her side.
She's one of those wolf girls, helmet already on and looking like any other high school girl.
Windbreaker from what must be one of her parent's job, and the inevitable sneakers & jeans.
Medium brown fur with a hint of black on the tips, and longer hair only a shade darker already back in a ponytail for the ride.
You offer to check the scooter over.
"It just got a new battery, and it was running fine yesterday and this morning."
It only takes a second to see what's gone wrong.
The battery cable's been pulled tight and wrapped around part of the frame.
It's like a trig problem, but someone got clever and made it too tight in the process.
You cut one of the ties and jiggle a few others to get some slack.
After you loosen and tighten the connection back up, she looks puzzled when you stand up so soon.
When you tell her to try it, it turns over immediately.
Her eyes go soft for a second then she hugs you with explosive glee.
You catch her name just before she collects her bag and rides away.

It's almost 100 degrees out and the wind is barely stirring.
You have sweat dripping off you, and can see your father a bit away sweating just as hard.
"Now, can you see yet how we're going to see where to dig the other two corner posts?"
You shake your head, stay quiet, and can feel a math lesson coming on.
"Ten years old is old enough to learn how to do this."
Two posts have been sunk in the ground, the earth around them fresh, wet and tamped back down.
Several lengths of lumber lay end to end between the two posts, waiting for posts midway between.
Rolls of twine, cut posts, and a couple of insulated jugs lay off to the side.
He hands you a tape measure.
"Short side's going to be thirty feet.  Clip that to the post and walk over there."
You walk off thirty feet, then he has you walk in a short arc while scuffing the dirt.
Your mother will complain later about sneakers that are still good being used for outdoor tasks.
He has you repeat this with the other post.
"Now we're going to make this square."
He removes a calculator from his back pocket, then draws a triangle in the dirt.
He puts in the numbers, saves the results, then does it again a bit slower for you.
Then he presses a few of the funny labeled buttons at the top, and it spits out another number.
You get told to pick up the long tape, and walk that off.
"Make a good mark so we can see where they cross."
You repeat that again.
Then he has you walk off the length towards one of the two sets of marks in the dirt while he stands at the other.
You stop right at the cross of the two marks your foot made.
You look at the tape, and wonder how it's exactly the length between the two sunk posts.
"Easier than a whore in six inch heels.  Let's take five and then get these holes dug."
You hope your mom never hears him say that in from of you.

The flashlight wobbles for a second, and then she holds it steady again.
"Are you sure you know how to do this?"
It's not like you have a choice; you've got to finish hooking this up and then assemble the bed frame if she's going to sleep here tonight.
She hands you the other wrench; it's not like you're doing anything hard.
The electrical connection had already been installed, and the lines to the apartment's pipes waiting.
All you have to do is tighten a few hoses and plug in the new water heater which was holding up her move-in.
After three delays, including the heater getting damaged in shipping, they were letting you make the connections.
The plumber was overworked and couldn't send someone out on such short notice.
Even if he was going to be by first thing in the morning, you still had to catch yourself second-guessing each small step.
And if she didn't move in today, she'd have to find somewhere else to sleep; her dorm was cleaned out and the boxes stacked in the living room.
You finish up, and say a small prayer as you turn the water on and then the power.
You watch for a minute, and breathe easier when the connections look good.
"Can I try it yet?"
Her ears are pointed forward twitching in barely restrained happiness & excitement.
You get up, crack your back and dust off.
She's changed a lot in the past three years.
Her hair is a little shorter, but the shy girl is now the one that lights up any room and gets everyone to feel at ease.
She turns the knob, yips with glee as hot water pours over her hand, and gives you one of her patented hugs.
And a kiss too, a long loving kiss between friends and more than occasional lovers.
A couple hours later she's thrilled again at the bed frame.
Anything is better than those old & worn out mattresses & springs the dorm rooms have.
You're glad you brought the saw and some extra wood.
One piece was missing from the kit and another was short by a few inches.
It's nothing that can't be fixed with a little good old work, and now she's in the kitchen making you a thank-you meal.
"Hope you brought your appetite tonight!"

Your hand is shaking a little bit.
"Good, you've got your marks so now draw a line between them."
You've watched him do this before, and today, but now he's having you do this from the start.
"Hold it tight against the guide.  That's it.  Your hand is OK, just keep your thumb tucked in.  Now flip the switch and pull the saw forward."
The saw roars to life and you pull forward at the pace he'd shown you only minutes before.
Everything shudders and vibrates as the saw cuts through the piece of wood.
Finally it's over and you turn off the saw, unclamp your small hand, and start breathing again.
He has you do it again and again, and each cut gets marked in red on the plans on the workbench.
Every time you need to take a break from the saw, there's other work to do.
Drilling, nailing, sanding, and most importantly the sweating builds up.
Soon the plans are marked all over in red for completed tasks.
"Take your time and do it right the first time.  Measure twice and cut once.  And don't fuck up.  There's only so much you can do, and do it right.  This doesn't have to be a masterpiece."
There's more cutting, drilling, sanding, and sweating before you both step back.
"Probably better than my first project I did the work on, and you'll get better the more you do it."
You can tell where all the small imperfections and flaws really are.
"Now let's have some lunch.  Lunch is always better after a good morning's work."
But you can also tell he's proud you did the work and that you'll want to do better next time.

She's crying, and you see used up the box of tissues on the table and is most of the way through a second box.
There's no telling how many she went through before the reception.
She tried her best to hold it together, but you're her only son.
Her firstborn, the first to marry, and now you have a ring on your finger and she has someone else calling her Mom.
You've pulled up chairs to either side of her, and each of you have taken one side.
She picks up your newlywed wife's hands, strokes them through the gloves, and tries not to break into sobbing.
Your suit is crisp and perfectly fitted across your chest, shoes shining and hair perfect.
Her bridal gown is understated white lace and silk, the train now detached but the veil thrown back between her ears.
Her fur is trimmed and contrasting darkly against the white; her ears are forward but calm as they have been since she made her way down the aisle.
Your mother looks at both of you in turn.
You put your arm around here and pull her tight to you.
Your wife lays her head against your mother's shoulder, hands still together.
The sobbing starts, and she reaches the tissues before you do, handing them to you for your mother.
Her hands are still flat in her lap as you dry her eyes and keep the tears from the expensive suit and jacket.
"You two kids need to go back out there and dance.  I knew I was going to cry."
She sniffles a bit, then continues.
"I thought you'd be the easy one to watch go down the aisle.  Guess I better request more for when it's your sister's turn."
The smile she tries to hold is quivering at the corners of her mouth, fine lines appearing and disappearing.
"I'd never have guessed you two would end up together, and this soon after graduation.  Barely a full year, hasn't it?"
"Go.  This is your day; I can only cry like this once and I need you to make me the proudest used tissue factory in this reception hall."
She reaches to stroke the wolfish cheek of her newfound daughter-in-law.
Her smile is a bit steadier now, but you know that as soon as your back is turned she's likely to grab another box of tissues.

He's furious.
Your mother is crying, and her sisters are there too.
But he isn't yelling, and the doctor is talking softly and using big words you don't understand.
You wandered away from your mother, and down the short length of white tiled hall to where he was.
As you come up to his side, you look up.
His face is like a weathered cliff, and his leg against your body like a pillar.
The doctor finishes and walks away, leaving the smell of soap and things cleaner than even your mother or grandmother's kitchens.
He kneels down so slowly and the world closes in as he locks eyes.
The sounds of the hospital, the machines and gurney wheels and low conversations, fall behind.
"Go back over to your mother and aunts.  Let them cry.  Just hold them for a while."
He takes your tiny hands, and raises them slightly engulfed in his leathered ones.
"Whether they're sad or happy, they're going to cry.  We've got to take care of the things that need taking care of."
He breaks eyes with you just enough to look down the hall where the doctors are, then locks onto you again.
"You've got to be the rock that doesn't move for them.  I'm going to take care of the rest.  That's what us men have to do right now."

"We both knew well before we got married we'd never be able to have kids together, naturally."
It's been a couple of years, and you can't stop thinking about it.
"I want them, and I know you do."
All memories are raw given the right place and time; never able to callous over, only able to become deeper with the years.
"You're going to be one of the best fathers, ever."
It's been fifteen years now, and you can't break free of the form he set to make a man of a child.
Fifteen years, and every new action he's still guiding your hands through the steps of learning.
Fifteen years, and each repetition only carves finer detail in stone.
Her ears turn back; the darker fur forward only rarely with you.
But she cant get upset no matter how much she's concerned; she's always been able to tell when you get like this and that she just has to wait for it to pass.
"We're going to name the first after him."