We reached Slowrun Creek and walked along the edge of it. I could hear the water rushing over stones, and in the glow from the man’s flashlight, it glittered. The faint odor of smoke hung in the air as we came closer. When we arrived underneath the bridge, I saw the remains of a fire. He poked the embers with a long stick, put broken branches on top. Soon enough the fire crackled and I could see blankets lifted up on sticks, a makeshift tent. There was a large backpack and a neat pile of garbage off to the side. The dog sniffed all around the perimeter, then settled in, sucking on a stuffed toy. I think it was a squirrel.

The man clapped his hands together. “There’s heat coming off that now. If you want to stand closer. Dry off. Or you can wash your trousers in the, the, urh, water and hang them up. With soap.”

“I’ll stand,” I said. No way was I taking my pants off. I edged nearer to the flames.

“You won’t smell acceptable, but it is your choice.”

The man went to his backpack and came back with an orange. Peeled it and tossed the rind into the fire. Then he cracked it open, ate a section, and handed half to me. I took it.

“Do you have a real home?” Maybe because I’d stopped shivering and had food in my stomach, I felt safe enough to ask questions.

His eyes narrowed. “This is real. It doesn’t change much day to day, so I know it’s real.”

“I mean like a house.”

“Of course. Urh. But it’s not a good place to stay.”

“Why not?”

His head jerked up. “Why not? Wait, Stan. Wait.”

“Stan?”

“Scans,” he said. He ate another piece of the orange. Juice glistened on his beard. He tapped the corners of his mouth with his finger in an almost delicate way. “Beams in the attic had trackers. I let birds loose but they couldn’t dig them out.” He scratched his beard, tugged at a handful and twisted it in his fingers. “Saying too much? Okay, okay. Full stop.”

“What’s your name, mister?”

His eyes darted left and right and he whispered, “Which one, which one? You’re always mumbling. Henry.”

“Henry?”

He laughed as though that was the funniest thing to say. “No, no.” Then he nodded. “That’s good.” He looked at me and said, “Carl.”

“Carl?”

“Yes, just Carl.”

“I’m Ro—”

He waved his hands. “Don’t tell me. They might be listening.” He pointed upward. “Metal and concrete block the worst of it. But.”

“Okay,” I said. Maybe if I thought about it later, I’d know what he meant.