From the outside, can't and won't look the same.

He had a guy on his crew. Good hands. Every morning, first thing: this job sucks. Two years. Nothing you could point at. No cast. Just the same sentence, and a door that shut a little more each morning.

From the outside, a man who can't and a man who won't look identical for as long as you are only watching the outside. Grief gets watched that way. So does a bad season on a job. Somebody is still standing there in year seven and the room decides they must not want it enough.

This book does not decide whether that man was unwilling. It does not decide the opposite either. It stays on the tailgate after the last truck is loaded and asks the only question you can ask from outside: what could you see, and what did you assume from how long he stood there.

Two voices. No names. Trees. A field. An unhung door. A third hallway nobody practiced opening. They reach for a rule that would make the weight lighter. They do not find one they will hand you.

A visible cast is easy. An invisible one is not. Time is not a readout of willingness. It is just time.

No verdict. The last step is left with you. Ask before you decide. Don't close it because the day is over.

Investigate.