To: Penny Winslow
Subject: URGENT: Production Schedule Concerns
Dear Penny,
I hope this email finds you well. I’m reaching out with some concerns regarding our production schedule for your tiny house episode.
Our location scout visited yesterday and reported significant delays in the renovation progress compared to our last update. More concerning were reports that Owen Carver is no longer attached to the project. As you know, the craftsman/homeowner dynamic was a key element in our storytelling approach.
Given our tight production timeline and network commitments, we need to make some difficultdecisions:
1. Can you confirm whether Owen Carver is still involved in the renovation?
2. If not, do you have a replacement contractor secured who can complete the work by our filming date?
3. What is your realistic assessment of having the house camera-ready in 12 days?
I want to be transparent: our production schedule has no flexibility, and we need to be confident that your renovation will be substantially complete for filming. If that’s no longer feasible, we may need to pursue an alternate project for this slot.
Please respond with an update by end of day tomorrow. I’m happy to discuss by phone if that’s easier.
Best regards,
Adele Hutchinson
Senior Producer,Tiny House Transformations
I stare at the screen, rereading the email as rain hammers the roof. The TV opportunity—once the crown jewel of this entire project, the thing I thought would validate every risk I’d taken—now teeters on the edge of falling apart.
Six weeks ago, I would’ve snapped into crisis PR mode. I’d have drafted a masterfully upbeat response, spun the delay into a narrative arc, reassured everyone that everything was perfectly under control. The show was the reason I bought the house in the first place. It was the proof I needed that I hadn’t completely lost the thread of my life.
But as I glance around at the half-finished living room, I realize the show isn’t what matters most anymore.
Between demo and drywall, somewhere in the sawdust and shared silence, this house became something more than a set piece or a strategy. It’s not just content. It’s home. Or at least, it could be.
I close the laptop without replying.
For once, I don’t want to spin. I want to build something real.
By late afternoon,the storm has shifted from full-on assault to steady, sulking drizzle. I slip on boots and head outside to inspect for damage, umbrella snapping in protest against the gusty wind.
The porch held up beautifully—Owen’s craftsmanship, unshaken. I move toward the steps and pause. A flash of cedar, half-buried in the mud, catches my eye.
I kneel and brush it free: a piece of a birdhouse.
But not just any birdhouse. Handcrafted, dovetail joints, decorative edges—distinctly Owen. I spot more fragments nearby: the arched roof, the delicate perch, the baseplate etched with the faintest carving:O.C.
My breath catches. This was one of his.
The secret ones Blake mentioned. The ones he leaves around town and never claims credit for.
Only this one wasn’t left at random. It was here. On my property. For me.
I collect the pieces with shaking hands, pressing them to my chest like a rescued artifact. Then I hurry back inside.
At the workbench, I lay everything out. It’s splintered in places, muddied, missing corners—but it’s still unmistakably beautiful. The roof pitch even mirrors my own house. This wasn’t just a gift. It was a quiet declaration. A message left unsaid.
And I never even saw it until it broke.
