Julian didn’t hesitate. He stood up, setting the mug down with a sharp click against the granite counter. “The attic pull-down is in the laundry room closet. Let’s go.”
We climbed the stairs quietly. Julian brought a heavy, aluminum LED flashlight from the utility closet. In the ceiling of the laundry room, a flush plywood square concealed the attic ladder. He pulled it down with a creaking rattle that made all of us wince.
“I’ll go up first,” I said.
“I’m right behind you,” Julian insisted.
I took the flashlight and climbed the narrow wooden rungs. The transition from the climate-controlled second floor to the unconditioned attic space hit like a physical wall. The air up here was stifling, smelling of blown cellulose insulation, warm pine framing, and dry dust.
I swept the beam across the expanse of the attic.
Rafters stretched into the shadows. Silver, snake-like flexible ducts coiled across the joists, branching off from a central air handler mounted on vibration dampeners in the middle of the attic floor. Everything looked pristine, newly installed, completely standard for a modern suburban retrofit.
