Mike, Christy, Meredith and Bobby slap one more gallon of off-white paint up before strapping in, grabbing a mic, and hitting the drive-thru for a venti half-caff cup of Mike’s basketball tears (sorry, Mike) on the way to a stranger’s woodshop. We’d have parked, but only pheasants walk up, and it’s still a little cold for these parachute shorts.