The inside of Roy’s house is straight out of the pages of Better Homes & Gardens, if it were actually called Depressing Houses on Pretty Cool Tree Farms. It’s nearly empty. Extremely spare. Bleakly so. There is definitely no HGTV vibe. I wonder what his family’s house in Brisben used to be like? The article had said his wife was a painter. Were there canvases on the walls? Did she have an artist’s flair for decorating? Whatever it was like, it had to be nicer than this.

The front door opens into a living room in which—aside from a beat-up old recliner, a huge boxy TV, and a cardboard box of tattered blankets that must be for Buddy—there’s nothing. No pictures, no other furniture, no decorations, no rugs, no curtains. Let alone throw pillows, Ikea accessories, or cut-flower arrangements.

Out of necessity, I use Roy’s bathroom. It’s not disgusting, but it is definitely no frills. One bath towel for the lone wolf. Over the sink, his medicine cabinet—hell yes, I snoop—holds precisely one tube of toothpaste, one toothbrush, one can of store-brand shaving cream, one yellow plastic razor, and one stick of Old Spice deodorant. Dang. Someone stage an intervention for this product-hog.

The kitchen is also straight-up utilitarian: a small electric stove, super old-fashioned refrigerator, dented sink, drooping shelf full of cans of soup, beans, tuna, and sardines. There’s a small table, a folding chair, a plastic patio chair, and another box of blankets. Buddy is curled up in this one, his thick tail whorled into a curlicue over the edge. The coffee- maker and microwave are the only evidence that we have not, in fact, time-warped into a 1935 West Virginia mining town.

Roy clears junk mail off the table and gestures for me to sit. I plop down while he pulls the latch on his refrigerator. Man, he could sell that thing on eBay for big money. “Authentic Vintage 1950s Refrigerator ~~~ Still Works!”

“Coke or Pepsi,” Roy asks.

Coke or Pepsi? Who buys both? Where is the man’s brand loyalty?

“Coke, please.” I open my lunch bag. PB&J never looked so good.

Roy hands me a can of Coke and sets another one on the table. From the fridge, he grabs a bag of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a plastic squeeze-bear of honey.

“Thanks.” I pop open my soda and sip while Roy dips a knife into the peanut butter, hardened from the cold, and mashes it onto a slice of bread. He dribbles honey over the peanut buttered slices. PB&H: the combination had heretofore not occurred to me. Most interesting. Looks yummy. Then again a baby harp seal straight from the endangered species menu would look good to me right now. I’m slightly ravenous.

We eat, quiet except for the smacking of sandwiches and the slurping of Coke.

“Want some cookie?” I take one out of my bag. “I make them really huge.”

Roy looks hesitant. I bend the cookie until it breaks and set half on the table next to his Coke. “They’re pretty good, if I do say so myself. I bake them mostly so I can eat the dough. Usually I can’t get rid of all the cookies in time for the next batch.”

Roy holds his part of the cookie up, turning it over to inspect it. “In that case, I’d be helping you out.”

“You really would.”

He takes a bite. And another. I have a convert on my hands. We wash down more cookie with another Coke.

“I can drink Pepsi next time. I’m not picky.” Actually, I am all kinds of picky, but I’m trying to grow here, people. “And I can bring more cookies.”

“It’s a deal.”

I start to help Roy clean up, but he motions at me to sit back down. “Nothing much to do,” he says. “You just set.”

He rinses our empty Coke cans and puts them in a paper bag. I watch him until I finally work up the nerve to ask the question that has been floating around my brain. I clear my throat. Why am I so nervous? “Um, Roy? Can I ask you a question?”

He wipes his hands on a grimy dishtowel and leans back against the sink. “You can ask. Won’t guarantee an answer.”

Harsh. Way to put a lady at ease there, cowboy. “I don’t mean to be nosey,” I say, “but…how did you end up with Buddy for a pet? I mean, not to be rude, he seems sweet and all. But I haven’t seen a lot of…” I kind of taper off, not wanting to insult the man’s possum. (That sounds bad.)

“Found him when he was little. Hurt on the side of the road. His mom and the other pups were already dead. I brought him home, fed him milk, fixed him up. Tried to set him loose but the little feller just kept scuttling back up my leg.”

Sounds like Ruby, minus the trying to set loose part. “He seems pretty content,” I say, looking at him dozing in the box.

“Sure does. Plus he keeps the riffraff away.”

Is he kidding? Buddy’s a guard possum? What does he do, sleep you to death? “How? Does he bite?”

Roy shakes his head. “More that it takes a certain kind of person to come up and chitchat with a man who’s got a possum on his belt.”

So he’s weird Captain Possum on purpose. Interesting.

Roy’s looking at me. “That all you wanted to ask.”

Busted. “I did have another question.” Actually, Roy, there’s so much I want to ask you that I could launch into a full-scale interrogation: How can you deal with the violent deaths of people you love? How do you keep going? Do you blame yourself? Do you ever expect to love anyone ever again? What’s the point of going on? And a bunch of other questions I’m way too chickenshit to ask.

“Go on then.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but not irritated. It’s more like let’s get your questions out of the way so we can get on with things.

“Well, your garage? You asked me what I thought of the stuff on the pegboards. But then you didn’t say anything about it.”

Roy swishes the dishtowel onto his shoulder. “Uh- huh.”

I give a smile that quickly devolves into rubbing my chapped lips together. My Burt’s Bees lip balm isn’t quite cutting it in today’s outdoorsman/lumberjack scenario.

Roy sighs and pats his thigh. Buddy stirs in his box, scuttles over, and climbs his leg.

Roy shifts so Buddy can dangle. “Not something I talk about too much…”

Then why did you ask me what I made of it? “Oh, okay. I understand.”

“Wasn’t finished.” He taps Buddy’s tail, which seems to be some sort of I’m Pondering What To Say habit. “This isn’t…what I mean to say…I get the feeling you can be trusted. Despite the circumstances of your employ.” He blows out a breath. “I keep those things as reminders. From my work.”

Okay. That clarifies everything.

I wait for him to elaborate.

Guess what? He doesn’t.

Buddy scuttles down Roy’s leg. He makes it halfway back to the box of blankets, then stops, cocks his head, and makes this bizarre urrp noise, like a squeak/burp/hiccup/cough combo. Roy chuckles. “Guess he’s telling us it’s time to get back to work. What say we muster trees.”

“Sounds good.” Because I was born to muster trees. Pretty sure. If muster means what it sounds like it means.

At 3:37, when Jeremy finally comes up the driveway, I stagger to the car. I almost don’t make it, I swear. In my whole life, I’ve never been so tired. But not once—not once—did I complain, bitch, whine, or moan. Go me.

“Worked hard today,” Roy says, surveying the trees propped against the garage. “Say a couple more days like this, we’ll be square and then some.”

Fantastic news. Fan. Ta. Stic. News.

“What say tomorrow. Same time.” Roy hands me a piece of paper with his phone number. “Should have given you this yesterday. In case plans change.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I hand him my safety glasses and earplugs and peel off the work gloves he lent me. For some reason I feel shy again. “Um, see you tomorrow.”

“Yep.” He goes back to work.

Really, he should scale back on such long, sappy goodbyes. The sentimental bastard.

I climb into the car and sink deep into the seat as Jeremy maneuvers down the driveway. The music blares.

“Can we turn it down?” I ask/yell. “Just this once?”

Jeremy turns it down. I close my eyes. I am so so so so so so tired. But for the first time in a long time, I’m content. Tonight I’ll sleep. Not just sleep, but Sleep The Sleep Of The Righteous, as Dad would say.

“The deal’s off.”

“What?” I open my eyes.

“I’m not driving you up here any more.”

“Are you freaking kidding me? We had a deal.”

“No longer.”

“Fine. Be an ass. I’ll make your life miserable. And I’ll use the internet twenty-four seven. I’ll tell Mom and Dad I have essays I need to type—”

“No you won’t.”

“I won’t?”

He shakes his head and smiles like a smug turd. “Realizations came to me today, when Mom said something about you raising money at the dance thing.”

“You didn’t tell her!?”

“Not yet. That’s my point. I’ve got leverage now. I’m not giving you any more rides and you’ll do my chores and I get the computer whenever I want, however long I want it, or I’ll tell Mom and Dad what you’re up to.”

My cheeks burn hot, then icy. This is a new low for my brother. Yes, he loves being a supreme irritation. But this—this is diabolical.

“You’re such an…” I stop, take a breath. What about Stenn? Ruby? Driving? If Mom and Dad find out…I take another breath. “Please, Jeremy. I need your help. If I can’t get a ride, I…”

“Not my problem.” He starts to crank up the music.

“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

He looks at me. “You mean besides ruining our family?”

My heart flops in my chest. “Ruining our…what do you mean?” It’s nearly a whisper.

“Your friend died, but that’s no excuse. You’re a supreme bitch. All Mom and Dad ever talk about now is you. What a pain in the ass you are.” He drums the steering wheel. “Remember when they didn’t scream all the time? When everything wasn’t always about you?”

Do I remember that? Oh, vaguely.

Tears are threatening to fall. What a shocker. “Please,” is all I can say.

“Not my problem. Find another way up here. I have a splendid idea: Why don’t you ask Mom and Dad for a ride?”

I’m so not the only one in the family with a snark problem.