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how it works

TITLE: Done | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
08/15/26
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Quentin glanced at the glowing red numbers on the clock as he paced the room for the twelfth night in a row. His newborn daughter, Rosie, squirmed in his arms, pushing against the backrub, whimpering, unsettled. His wife, Desiree, stirred fitfully under the blankets, an empty bottle abandoned near her hand.

The wooden floor was cool beneath his bare feet. Moonlight streamed through a slit between the curtains. Milk-sweet breath and baby shampoo mixed to fill his senses. The exhausted father tucked the squirming bundle closer to his chest, glanced down at the wicker basket, and thought back to his own childhood. His father had handcrafted a bed that had lasted him into his teens.

“Shhh! Shhh! There, there,” he whispered. “Daddy’s got you. It’s okay.” His lips brushed the silky dark hair and slid over her cotton-soft cheek. The moment he hesitated, the wriggling and protesting started again. “Rosie, Rosie, why won’t you rest?”

Before dawn, he nestled the restless little one beside his waking wife, donned his work-clothes and shoes, and headed to the workshop in his garage. The smell of cedar shavings and sawdust lingered as the first songbirds raised their tentative praises. The fingers of dawn crawled across the dusty windowsill, over the maple boards on his workbench, and onto an abandoned measuring tape.

Snatching up a pencil stub, he sketched out plans. Marks appeared on boards. Saw cuts shaped wood. Fine sawdust and dust motes danced in the early beams before settling on his boots. “Measure twice, cut once,” he muttered to himself. He planed boards until everything lay smooth. Curls of maple multiplied across the bench and onto the concrete floor.

Desiree dropped by with lunch and a fussy Rosie. “How’s it going?”

“Working on the legs next,” he said. “Got the side rails done, the wooden slats, the frame. Might be done by nightfall.”

As the sun kissed the horizon goodnight, Quentin hauled in the last pieces. Desiree rocked Rosie in her chair, nursing, trying to keep her eyes open.

“Any hope?” Desiree asked.

“Everything’s stained, waxed, and dried for assembly.” He arranged the pieces, laid out the tools and screws, and got to work.

Rosie fussed as Desiree paced. Rain tapped gently against the windows. Twice, the little one startled awake from a ringing phone. Another time, by a delivery man at the front door.

Screws fastened the frame, the legs, the rails, the support boards, and the headboard. Quentin shook the bed. Solid. His father had taught him well.

“Looks like it could hold a small elephant,” Desiree said.

“Not taking any chances,” Quentin replied, smiling. The mattress he’d purchased fit comfortably into place. The quilt, with the Noah’s ark theme crocheted by his sister, matched perfectly with the creation-themed sheets donated by Desiree’s mother.

They sighed, then laughed, startling Rosie enough to stop her whimpering.

Quention rubbed beeswax one more time into the rails with his rag. The pale wood deepened into warm honey. He breathed it in. Wood. Wax. A frame like his father had built for him. He nudged the bed into the corner of their room and then turned to Desiree with his arms out.

“Test run. I hope she’s ready.”

For a moment, he held his daughter against his chest. Perhaps his finished work would help Rosie find the rest she needed. Her tiny fist opened and closed on the collar of his shirt. Her lips worked hard. “This is yours,” he said. “So you can rest.”

Carefully, he lowered her. When she touched the mattress, she stiffened. Her face wrinkled. Little fingers brushed up against the smooth maple rail and then slowed, holding on. Her breathing slowed. Quentin froze, Desiree rubbing his back, hardly daring to breathe.

A minute passed. Rosie’s eyes stopped fluttering. Her mouth relaxed. The smallest sigh escaped her lungs. Another minute passed, then five, then ten. Daniel knelt, staring in wonder. “She’s asleep,” he said.

“I see that,” Desiree whispered. “Her father’s finished work brought the rest she so desperately needed. Kind of like what our Father did in finishing his work so that we could rest.”

“Yes!”

“Whose got first shift?” Desiree asked, tugging at his hand.

“I’ll take it,” Quentin said. “Afterall, if it was the work of the father that got her to rest, I need to sit a while and enjoy the fruit of my labor. You go rest. It looks like this one bed will mean more rest for all three of us.”

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