I never wanted to spend my life wasting away in some sterile office.

I suppose, if I'd really thought about it, I never wanted to be in Denver doing manual labor either.

But I didn't think about it. I was 22, a long way from home, and dead broke. As I approached the job site, I should have been warned by the stickers of Calvin pissing on the rear window of the dual-wheeled pickup. But I needed money. Bad.

Besides, this wasn't my first gig as a framer. By now I was quite versed in the unwritten rules of carpentry, and I expected them.

But how could I have expected Larry? >>>