In the relative silence of the caretaker’s shack, Stiles never expected to hear his own laughter. But the absurdity of the question, especially in light of the shithole they were sitting in . . . Apparently his sense of humor had warped a bit in the last few years. “Look around you, Slick,” he spread his arms. “Can’t you see I’m in the proverbial lap of luxury?” He turned away just long enough to scoop up the Harlequin paperback and splatter a roach on the wall above the bed. “Paradise it ain’t. You ever tried to get a job in Indiana? They’re few and far between to say the least. I finally met this one old guy who was willing to give me a chance. He runs a manufacturing company in the basement of that house across the way. I’ve been working there for a few weeks now. Repackaging silicone—I take it out of here and put it in there, from barrels to caulking tubes. Sounds fun, huh? After a couple of hours with that stuff, your head is just roaring from the fumes and you can’t get it out of your clothes, but what the hell, it’s money, right? I get a whole two-fifty an hour in cash, that and this place to bunk in, and I’ve got to be damn grateful for that. So much for the American dream, eh?” He nodded toward the table. “The money would only stretch so far this time. I barely had enough for the ammo, let alone any groceries. So here I am, Alex. Somewhere in the boonies with less than ten bucks to my name. You tell me, how am I doing?”

Alex was quiet for a moment. “Don’t whine, Hoss,” he said. “At least you’re still alive.”