5. Maisie growing. Chair adjustable within prescribed range.
6. Me becoming a biker. Absolutely not. Sarah would kill me before motorcycles do.
I laughed until I cried. Ray leaned against the desk.
"He knew you."
"Apparently."
I turned another page.
There were figures showing the project budget. Insurance coverage estimates. Foundation commitments. Daniel's donated design fee. A note beside a blank line:
If external review succeeds, unused foundation money stays in access fund for next family. That mattered to me.
Daniel had not tried to take more than we needed. Ray had not tried to make us dependent on him. The project had structure.
"What happened to the extra money?" I asked.
Ray nodded toward Lena's office.
"Still in the foundation. Insurance eventually covered more than we expected, so there's about six thousand left from designated donations after your costs. Board voted to keep it for pediatric equipment gaps."
"Can you do that?"
"Donors were told excess funds go to similar accessibility projects. Everything's in the foundation documents."
Of course Daniel had worried about that too. Maisie rolled toward a photograph wall near the office. Pictures showed charity rides, accessible ramps, veterans beside modified bicycles, families at fundraisers, and children with helmets sitting on adapted tricycles. In the middle was Daniel.
He stood beside Ray and Rebecca, holding the purple color sample.
"Can I have that picture?" Maisie asked.
Ray looked at me. I nodded. He removed it carefully from the board.
"Make me a copy," he told her. "Shop's uglier without your dad on the wall."
Maisie hugged the photograph against her chest. We stayed nearly three hours. That afternoon did not erase what happened on Fulton Road. The shop remained connected to Daniel's last night because reality cannot be edited into separate chapters simply because one version hurts less.
But the connection changed. Dawson Custom Works was no longer the place that took Daniel from us. It was a place where he had loved us when we were not there to see it. Michael called twice that week.
I did not answer. On Friday, he came to the house. I almost left him on the porch. Then I saw the tool belt in his hand.
"What are you doing?"
He looked toward the front doorway.
"Daniel wanted the threshold changed."
I frowned.
"What?"
"For the new chair. He mentioned it when he asked me to help. There's a half-inch lip here. The new front casters can handle it, but he wanted it smoother."
My anger rose again.
"And you didn't do it because you thought the project was stupid."
Michael looked down.