He was holding the shotgun more tightly now. His muscular forearms were streaked with dirt. His teeth were straight but discolored. His greasy hair was curly and long. He might have been attractive if he were clean and not so paranoid.

Wendy pointed bravely at the sign. “Aren’t you selling fireworks?”

The man seemed to notice the sign for the first time. “Huh. I don’t know. Maybe?”

Wendy looked at her watch, even though she’d stopped wearing a watch years ago. “Well, that’s disappointing.” She sighed, trying to sound like a normal person who wasn’t scared to death. “I’ll have to call around and see if I can find them somewhere else.”

“No.” He waved the shotgun around and she almost screamed. “Let’s look for them. If we find them, you can have them for free. Finders keepers.”

He turned and went into the shelter. Wendy really wanted the fireworks. Against her better judgment, she followed him.

It was a murderer’s lair, that much was certain. The actual discarded dirty clothes and shoes—women’s shoes—of his victims and more randomly, a collection of hairbrushes, lay on a blue plastic tarp on the ground.

“I’m trying to gather enough stuff to open my own vintage shop.” Of course he was lying. That’s what all murderers said. “I wanted to collect typewriters, but they’re so heavy.”

“Mmmm,” Wendy said, too frightened to speak actual words.

A tall, lidded garbage can stood in the corner. It was probably full of body parts. The man removed the lid.

“Oh, here you go.” He pulled out a long, thin cardboard box printed with red and yellow Chinese characters. “Bingo. It’s full of ’em.”

How had he not noticed this before?

He picked up the garbage can by the handles and carried it out of his lair. “I can’t do anything with these. They’re illegal to sell. I don’t want to draw attention. You understand.”

Wendy followed him to the U-Haul. He was still carrying his gun. If she said one wrong thing, he could change his mind, shoot her in the head, and steal her hairbrush, which was in her purse.

“I’m trying to stay under the radar,” he went on.

He heaved the garbage can into the van and propped it against the dismantled picnic table. Wendy did her best to smile.

“Thank you very much. I was never here,” she said, and walked in what she hoped seemed like an unhurried, unafraid fashion to the driver’s-side door. “Good luck.”

He waved his shotgun in the air. “See you in hell!”

“I miss home.”

As soon as he’d written the words, Roy sat back in his chair and wondered: Did he miss home? Did he miss England?