I wipe the sweat from my brow on the sleeve of the white jumpsuit. The red smear left behind on the sleeve is unexpected. Leaving the hammer drill on the partially-tiled floor, I stand up to look in the large mirror on a nearby wall. Sure enough, there’s a tiny nick on my forehead. I step around another brother dressed in white to reach the box of tissues concealed beneath a cover of white yarn on a matrix of plastic. Satisfied that the bleeding has stopped, I adjust my earplugs, grab the Hilti, and continue tearing up the tiles of the baptistry.
The evening hasn’t gone quite as I anticipated.