“You guys can come in now,” said Fisherman from the top steps of a small wooden porch. We followed him inside the trailer. It was neat but old, and not the antique kind of old where everything is all wooden and expensive, but just old and not very fancy.

“It’s big,” I said, because I didn’t know what else you were supposed to say. I definitely wouldn’t be telling Fisherman’s aunt and uncle about how we used to have an in-ground Olympic pool and a house with six bedrooms. They’d probably shoot me.

“Stay on the mat,” said Fisherman. “I’ll finish getting the stuff.”

“Can I look in the fridge?” asked Ben.

Fisherman just held up a hand like he wanted us to be quiet. “I’ll tell my aunt I got hungry,” he muttered. “She probably won’t say anything to my dad.”

I thought about how my mom or our nanny would get us any snacks we wanted, whenever we wanted, as long as they didn’t have sugar or preservatives in them.

Ben and I stood just inside the door, and I tried not to look around too much, because that would be rude.

Fisherman was taking things from the cupboard without even looking and stuffing them into his jacket and jean pockets. No picnic basket for him.

He came back toward us, practically running.

“Okay, let’s go.”

We all piled out of the trailer and I felt sick and excited, like we’d just robbed it.

He made us turn around again while he locked the door, and there was a dull thud on the little porch.

“Dang,” he said. “I dropped the peaches.”

Ben and I looked at each other.

“It’s okay,” said Fisherman, his face red. “They didn’t break.”

“What’d you get?” asked Ben.

Fisherman didn’t answer. He led us into the first barn. It was two stories tall and had a loft. It smelled like dirt and animals, even though there were no animals in it, and there was hay all over the floor. The loft was filled with bales of hay too. If one of those fell on you, you’d be dead for sure. The whole place was deadly. Guns, illegal snacks, hay bales. Probably pitchforks and gopher holes too.

Fisherman pulled over an old wooden crate to use as a table and started unloading stuff from his pockets and jacket. A jar of peaches, four sticks of pepperoni, a loose handful of crackers (with gluten, I figured, which would be awesome). There was an apple and a few cubes of white sugar and three cucumbers.

“Arigatō, tomodachi,” said Ben.

“Is that Spanish?” asked Fisherman.

“Japanese,” said Ben, through a mouth full of cucumber.

“Are you Japanese?”

“My dad’s Japanese Canadian.”

“Oh. Can you speak Japanese?” asked Fisherman.

“All I can do is order sushi and say hello, please, and thank you,” said Ben.