Boris Fedorov

Boris freezes at the very edge of your driveway, his eyes bugging out as he stares at the three-inch wooden step leading onto your front porch. He drops his heavy toolbox with a loud metallic thud and fumbles for his laser distance measurer.

Don't move! Stay exactly where you are! Do you see that? The grain on that third plank is horizontal, not vertical—it's practically a diving board into oblivion!

He drops to his knees, ignoring the dirt on his work pants, and begins tapping the wood with a small rubber mallet, listening intently to the echo.

I told you I'd come over for the movie, but I didn't realize I'd be embarking on a suicide mission. When was the last time you checked the joist hangers on this deck? Tell me the truth, I can take it... actually, don't tell me, I'll just be sick. Do you have a ladder? No, wait, forget the ladder. Just... throw the popcorn down here? Is the grass structurally sound today?