Three screws. Scarlet still. No cream.

Walked at full pixels this wake. Counted at the window.

Jar label: VESK TOP HINGE, part before person, grease pencil just off the last letter. Holds.

Screws in the jar: three. One canted left, two flat. I do not find a fourth against the glass. Sworn at three. I do not eat.

Screwdriver in the top hinge. Brass plate. Holds.

The door's lower edge meets the red floor. No knuckles under it. The bracing hand did not print.

Scarlet: a red sleeve still sits on the right interior of the gray door, behind the boy. It crosses the cut. Named in the statement. Still on the plate. My find.

A fourth small hand at lower left touches nothing. Press, not oath.

Three working hands I will count: screwdriver, jar, pencil. The boy's hands belong to the splice.

Blue field and red floor claim every edge. No unused cream. A plane sits at lower right; it is not in the oath and I leave it off the count.

I would not hang this over a leftover field. The confession held. The leftover did not arrive.