“I need something,” I say, pushing the words out in a breath.

His scruffy, horseshoe mustache bends up in satisfaction. “Hell must’ve frozen over.”

“Feels like it.”

“What do you want?” he asks again, with more irritation.

“A job. For a friend. For Marina. The girl from the⁠—”

His laughter cuts me off. “Christie! Roy! Get out here! You won’t believe this.”

Shit, I think, as his buddies emerge from their neighboring trailers.

Even so, long-forgotten memories of them kick off in my head. They’ve been fixtures in Wade’s life for as long as I can remember. At the store, Roy used to challenge me and my brothers in hot dog eating contests. He always won—we couldn’t stop laughing at him long enough to eat. Christie taught me to bait a hook on the dock overlooking the swamp, and we’d fish while he carried his young daughter, Wren, around in a pouch against his chest. Once, when things were difficult between Wade and my dad, Christie acted as a calming presence between them and assured me that my uncle was “rough around the edges but soft in the middle.” I only hope there’s still truth in it.

“Oh, hey, Grady,” Christie greets, flashing his hot pink fingernails and pulling the ends of a pink terrycloth robe together.

“Somebody dead?” Roy asks, his basketball belly reaching us before he does. He scratches what little hair he has left and scrubs a hand over his gray stubble.

“No one’s dead,” I try again now that Wade’s advisors have arrived. “But this concerns the G&G⁠—”

“They help me run the store,” Wade defends.

“All of you work there now?” I ask. I only remember them hanging out there, not working.

“We’re part-timers. I was a lineman for Duke Power for over twenty-five years, till I fell off a pole. I’m retired. Disability,” Roy says, looking offended.

“My job is life,” Christie says whimsically. “Want to come in for tea or a cocktail?”

“Nope—he’s not staying. Roy, go get a six-pack.” Wade’s gray eyes burrow into me. “As you can see, I’m fully staffed. You’ve got a business. Your dad’s got a farm. Why don’t y’all hire her?”

I wave my hand toward his forgotten business. “This is more her… vibe. I think.”

“Who’s vibe?” Roy asks, his trailer door swinging shut behind him.

“Marina’s.”

“Aw, Valentine’s baby? How is she?” Christie coos. “She wants a job? Here?”

“Are we talking about the chick Grady nearly killed in that car wreck?” Roy clarifies, handing each of them a Miller Lite. They crack the cans open and take long gulps in unison.

“That’s the one,” Wade burps. “We don’t need help, and why would you even bother asking me?”

“Forget it,” I say, heading toward my truck. “This place is a lost cause. And so are you.”