“Attendance has been down the last few years,” I said, “they tacked a ten-percent amusement tax onto tickets, and I guess they’re too pricey for working class wallets.”

“But alright for yours,” Cal hummed in a way that had me unsure if he was praising me or mocking me. “How much do I owe you for my ticket?”

“Nothing,” I replied. Though I would have taken care of his admission regardless, I wondered if Cal made money independently or if he got some kind of stipend for keeping Abraham’s company. The thought made me ill.

“Are you going to give me your pin next?” he teased. Peanut skins.

“Fuck you,” I grinned, averting my eyes. I liked when he joked like that. I debated whether I should ask, but the spirit of the moment compelled me. “How do you make money anyway?”

“I don’t,” Cal answered. “I’m direly poor.” There was no levity in his reply. “But rich in experience, which I prefer.”

“You eat,” I stated, watching as the Cubs took the field. “You use soap.”

“I’m glad you noticed,” he mused, holding the bag of nuts out to me. I took a handful.

“Those things cost money.”

He nodded. “They do. We live in a very communal way, a big pot of stew on the stovetop and shared soap.”

I grimaced. “Who do you share your soap with?”

“Everyone.”

I prayed we weren’t speaking in euphemisms. “You bought peanuts with your own nickel.”

“I did.”

“How did you earn that nickel?” I pressed, wondering if my theories were worse than the truth.

“You choose odd times to ask avoided questions,” Cal noted, laughing as he gave me a reassuring pat on my knee. “You’re supposed to be waxing poetic about all things baseball.”

“Why have we been avoiding questions?”

“Because you’ve preferred it that way.”

“Says who?”

“Everything about you,” he answered. “You want to know as little about me as you want to share about you. I realized a while ago that you’d rather know the me you’ve created in your mind than the one who sits flawed in front of you right this very moment.”

“Horsefeathers!” I disagreed, a knee jerk response. “Tell me who you are then. I dare you to. How do you produce your penny profits, Cal Connolly?” I wanted him to think I was accepting and open. I would force myself to be so if I needed to be.

“I make horrible moonshine desperate men pay pennies for,” he said easily, as if he hadn't activated a bomb and tossed it onto my lap.

“Come again?”

“You heard me. Am I right to assume my answer surprised you?” Cal laughed. “You saw me as a gold digger because it was the most reasonable explanation, right? A kept man?”

I shook my head in disbelief of the nugget of information I’d knocked the dirt from. “Moonshine?”