“This is my normal,” he says, gesturing toward the yard. “Always loud, always people coming and going. At home. At the boatyard … You may remember that my dad also has two sisters and a brother, and they all moved into town two years ago, so I have a million cousins. Someone’s always needing something. Money. Help. Attention. Sleeping on our couch. Dinners. Errands. Favors. Drama. Babysitting … I get so tired of all the chaos. I would kill to have the kind of refuge you have there. That’s my dream—living above the Nook? That seems amazing.”

“Seriously?”

“Hell yeah. Why do you think I love coming in there? One of the few places I can enjoy some peace and quiet and get away from my family.”

“You haven’t recently, you know. Been in the bookshop. Not since …”

“Well,” he says, shrugging as he pushes his plate away. “Been a little busy, chartering boats and whatnot.”

“And whatnot,” I say, smiling. I’m just happy that we’re talking, and it’s not awkward like it was when we first sat down to eat.

He glances over his shoulder, then says, “Hey. Wanna see something?”

“Are you going to show me where the bodies are buried?”

“I’d be surprised if there weren’t at least one.” He gestures with his head, and I silently follow him around the edge of the yard, through a pair of tall bushes, and into a side door that leads into the detached garage, where he flicks on an overhead light that takes a second to illuminate the dark space.

I look around while he closes the door behind us, shutting out the din of the backyard. It’s a one-car garage with no car parked inside, same as it always was when we came in here to play games on rainy days. But that’s all that’s the same. Next to the door is a beat-up couch and a tiny dorm-sized fridge being used as a side table, a stack of books and a lamp on top. But that’s not the bulk of what’s taking up the room in here.

Salvaged metal parts.

Everywhere.

Spokes. Wheels. Bars. Fenders. Pipes. Sheets. The walls are lined with industrial shelves that are packed with metal parts of all shapes and sizes. Metal hangs from the rafters. It’s stacked in the corner next to a large rotary machine that looks like it cuts or grinds—both, maybe. A large table in the center room stands near welding equipment; I recognize the small orange machine and nearby mask from seeing a similar one in use at the boatyard.

At the end of the garage, opposite the door, Lucky flips on a lamp over a workbench. Hammers and saws and a variety of strange tools hang from a pegboard. Rows of tiny drawers.