I said, “Hey, C.”

“Hey, D.”

“So, have you flunked out yet?”

“No,” she huffed. “Asshole.”

“Mom, Cressie said a bad word. On Sunday.”

But Mom was in the walk-in closet, changing. I sat on the edge of my parents’ bed, then flopped backward, stared at the slow-whirling ceiling fan. “For real, school going okay for you?”

“School is school.”

“That’s real disappointing. I always thought college supposed to be fun. Are you doing college correctly?”

“How’s school for you, big-time junior?”

“You already know. Ain’t nothing changed at Green Creek.” Not exactly true. But I wasn’t about to get into the latest GCHS drama with Mom a dozen feet away. Plus, I’d give my sister some credit; what interest would a college student really have in the petty nonsense happening in my high school’s hallways?

“No girlfriend?”

I almost said “soon,” but, again, Mom was right there. “On that note, I gotta get to the gig.”

“You know you can always ask me for advice when you need it, little brother.”

“Cold day in hell, big sister.”

“Del!” Mom barked from the closet.

“Now you care about bad words?”

Cressie said, “Love you, punk!”

“I know.” I passed Mom the phone and made my way to my room.

Inside, door closed and locked, I peeled off my church clothes and excavated my closet floor for faded jeans, my wrinkled official company shirt, and my catfish-stenciled hat. After suiting up, I grabbed my phone, earbuds, and car keys to pull a paper chase at the least appetizing restaurant in all of Green Creek.

“Welcome to Monte FISHto’s! What are you casting your hook for?” I was on autopilot, immune to the clotted smell of Old Bay batter.

My register’s touchscreen glowed, and I tapped in an order of two Cra-Burgers with extra Sea Sauce, Filet Fries (they’re regular fries, but the FISHto brand insisted on everything sounding extra), and drinks. “That’s twelve ninety-eight.”

I’d been there an hour; my first customer of the day, reeking of musty weed smoke and problems, handed me a crumpled, expired 50-percent-off coupon.

“Sir, I can’t take this.”

“What you mean you can’t take it?” He expected his red-eyed gaze to be the tiebreaker in our little dispute.

I said, “It expired last year.”

“No it ain’t.”

“Sir, this coupon is no longer valid and I, literally, can’t do anything about it. It’s got a bar code, and the system won’t even let me scan it.” I showed him the error message on my register—like it’d matter.

“Hell, naw.” Now he was loud. “I ain’t come here to be cheated out of my dough, lil’ man. Where the manager?”

“Tyrell!”

My manager, Tyrell, waddled around the corner, his belly stress-testing his button-up boss shirt that had a fancy version of the Monte FISHto mascot “The Count”—a red cartoon catfish dressed all British with a sword—stenciled over the heart, fronting like the Ralph Lauren polo horse. Tyrell had fat fingers, fat knuckles, and the kind of hair like the seats on public toilets. U-shaped, rimming the side of his head, while the rest of his scalp was completely bare. His eyebrows were raised so they were the closest things to a hairline he’d had in a while. “What’s going on, Del?”