Hank Jones wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of one hand, then stooped over, dropped his hammer, picked up his by now lukewarm beer, and finished it in a massive gulp. The framework for the playhouse he was building was almost complete, and soon he would be working on putting up the siding. He hoped that the obviously hard work he was pouring into the project would help ease the awkwardness in three days when his daughter and the 6 year old granddaughter he had never met came to stay with him.

It wasn't that he didn't want to have a better relationship with his daughter, but that he had never been given the chance to. His occupation was the sort that, once you were hired, you couldn't quit until you were given explicit permission to. Now, at 56, he had been retired for a year. A steady barrage of e-mails, phone calls, and letters had nearly convinced his daughter that he was trying his best to change, and he hoped the next few months would finish the job.

He picked up his hammer, thinking back on the last month's calls as he started laying out the boards he would use for siding. After nearly 10 months of e-mails and letters, she had called him on the phone. He was so relieved at first that her actual words didn't sink in.

"Hank, my husband is leaving me."

"Hi, Jen! Thanks for calling!" Finally the words sunk in. "Wait, what's that?" he asked, flustered.

"I don't even really know why, he just came in, packed a few bags, and ran right back out. He wouldn't answer any of my questions, and didn't even tell me what was going on until he called that night to tell Amy a bed-time story." By the end, Jen had started to cry softly, and Hank was fighting the urge to join her.

"Well, you want I should break his legs for you or something, honey?" Hank asked in a gruff voice.

"No Daddy. Just talk with me for awhile."

After that night, Jen warmed to Hank more and more with every call. When he asked her if she wanted to come stay with him for awhile while things were worked out, he was still mostly certain she would turn him down. To say he was pleasantly surprised when she said yes would be putting it lightly.

He was shaken from his reverie by the bright sunlight reflecting from tinted windows. A black sedan was pulling into his driveway. The car stopped with a jerk, and two men in black suits popped out simultaneously, as though they had practiced this maneuver just for this occasion. They stopped in front of the car for a moment, talking to each other and into walkie talkies, before walking towards Hank and his project with the same synchronized movements.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" asked Hank brusquely. He kept working on the siding, screwing the boards into place with a loud power drill.

"My name is Agent Jansen, this is Agent Orvil. We're with the CIA." This time, Agent Orvil was a little slow, and their presentation of identification was slightly off. "Are you Special Agent Harold James Jones?"

"Well, I was," said Hank as he bent over to select another board. "I was forcefully retired a year ago."

This time, it was Orvil's turn to speak. "I know sir, but a problem has come up. We need you back for a very important assignment. You will be well repaid for your help, but I'm afraid you don't have the option of turning us down."

"What the hell is this all about?" Hank dropped the board and drill. "I haven't seen my daughter in 16 years, and she's going to be here in 3 days! Do you have any idea how hard it was to get close to her after 16 years? And you want me to just blow her off because you have a little fiscal emergency?"

"'Fiscal Emergency'? Yes, I guess you could put it that way. I understand that this isn't going to be easy for you, but like my partner said, there's no choice involved here, Jones." Agent Jansen said.

"Well, if it absolutely must be done, I suppose you could bring it here, and I could work on things after the girls go to bed. It will be a pain in the ass, but what can I do? You guys have painted me into a corner here." "Bring it here? What the devil are you talking about, Jones?!" Agent Orvil asked, taking a step toward Hank threateningly.

"Sure, bring the papers here, I'll get out my old number cruncher, and I'll have the figures worked out within a few weeks, maybe less depending on what kind of job it is. I know it isn't the official way to do things, but it's just my family that's going to be here. I'll vouch for them," Hank replied. He had always gotten defensive when these cowboy-type guys breathed down his neck at The Company.

"I don't think you understand, Agent Jones. We're talking about a bodyguard operation. A Saudi friend of the President is making a trip to the States and has asked specifically for your protection. It seems you met him back in '87, during that special operation in Turkey, and you gave the Emir quite a high opinion of you." Agent Jansen explained.

"Oh!" Hank exclaimed. He shook the sweat out of his eyes and sat down on his wood pile in relief. "This is all a big mix-up. See, I'm Harold Jones from accounting. You're looking for Harold Jones from Special Forces! We were always getting each other's checks."

Agents Jansen and Orvil looked at each other, and walked back to their car and out of earshot of Hank, then started talking to each other again. Jansen got his walkie back out, and after a brief conference, he and Orvil walked sedately back to Hank.

"We're terribly sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Jones. Please forgive our intrusion," apologized a very annoyed Jansen.

"No trouble at all, guys. Good luck finding this other guy."

"You bet, Jones. Nice shed you're building there, Harold. Looks kinda girly, though," said Orvil as he and Jansen made their way back to their sedan. They entered the car, by now their synchronicity shot all to hell. Backing out of the driveway, Orvil tossed a quick, informal salute at Hank.

After they had passed out of sight, Hank picked up the board he had been working on, stood back up, and got back to work.

"Girly, eh?" Hank muttered to himself under his breath. "Of course it is, it's a playhouse, not a shed. Now those guys think I'm some sort of fruitcake just because I don't have a special relationship with some Arabian emir." He brought his hammer down hard on his thumb. "Aw, shit!" he shouted.

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