He looked at the wall thoughtfully. It wasn’t much—a small spot of fresh plaster, maybe a foot and a half in diameter. But it gave him an incredible sense of accomplishment, because he’d helped. He supposed he could carve his name into the still-wet plaster—not that he would; it would be an insult to the carpenter pony. Once the final coats were put over it, and it was painted, no one would be able to see it . . . but he’d know it was there. While he knew intellectually he was making an impact on their world, this was a real thing. This was something he’d helped build with his own hands. And on top of that, he’d made a friend. True, they’d probably never meet again, but he was sure she’d never forget him.