I can feel sawdust in the creases of my neck. Dried droplets of sweat on my glasses obscure my vision. There’s a meandering line of blood running into my sock from a three-inch gash just above my right ankle, the result of puncturing myself with industrial staples from the cedar plank of the gate I disassembled to rebuild. My back aches, its ability to act like a rubber band is long gone, and my fingers are coated with rust from handling old screws. My shirt sticks to my chest, soaked by spray from the water bottle.