On the ground, Ned draws the scaffold in dirt with a stick, as if dirt were plaster.

“You lash before you love the view. You test a board with a heel, not a speech. You do not carry a feast on an unwedged putlog. Time we lost, we lost. You still have your head, which I prefer to the other ending of that sentence.”

He puts the wedge in your hand. You go back up, together, and do the job you skipped. The board becomes furniture again.

“Gravity is not a dragon,” Ned adds. “Dragons can be bargained with in stories. This only goes down.”

The bruise on your hip will be a map tonight. The south flyers still need eyes. The yard still needs hands. You are allowed to be useful and embarrassed in the same hour; masons invented that combination.

You say the names back: standard, ledger, putlog, wedge, lashing. Ned makes you tap the board with your heel until you believe it. The bruise on your hip will be square, like a bad joke about geometry. Kit, below, has stopped running. Even Kit can learn from a nearly-courtyard.