Jesse scratched his belly underneath his T-shirt. Lynn wondered if this was really happening, if this man was really related to her, if he was just trying to be ultraredneck on purpose.

“I nailed that there rattrap up there after drillin’ a hole through the rafter. The hole’s about the size of a shotgun shell and it’s aimed at the VW. Got a twelve-gauge shotgun shell in there right now, just waiting. But the shell’s full a’ rock salt and tattoo ink. Tied that there string to the arm of the rattrap—the string goes all the way to my bedroom window. That thief comes back I’m gonna tattoo his behind so I know who he is.”

“Jess,” Lynn said in complete disbelief.

“What?” He looked totally baffled by her concern.

“So that thing could go off? Now?”

“Sure. If I make it go off.”

“What if someone accidentally set it off?” she asked. “Like one of the kids.”

“Nah. Look at you. Nervous as always.” Jesse giggled in a high-pitched tone that still made him sound like a teenager.

He hasn’t matured at all since he turned thirteen.

“Why not just call the police on the guy?” she asked.

“It’s a matter of principle.”

Lynn nodded.

“If that don’t work, well, then I’ll just get out the big gun.”

Sure enough, there in the corner of the woodshed was a Gatling gun that sat on wheels like a thin cannon. The barrels were long, the handle of it looked like something out of a Terminator movie. If, of course, one overlooked the duct tape.

“This’ll do the trick,” Jesse said, proceeding to use colorful language to describe how he’d colorfully spray the colorful intruder all over his colorful lawn.

“Tell me that’s not loaded.”

Jesse shook his head, then showed them a tin pail full of massive bullets the length of her hand that were supposed to go into the gun.

That cemented her decision to never, ever stay with Jesse and his family.

Lynn just wondered if she needed to call someone. Like the authorities. Or the psych ward.

Later on, as they sat down for dinner, Lynn noticed the carved-out coconut in the middle of the table.

First a rattrap armed with buckshot, then a Gatling gun, now a coconut centerpiece?

“Let’s all give thanks to Fred,” Jesse said, then winked at Lynn as he closed his eyes and started to pray. “Chicken’s yummy in our tummies. Amen.”

Lynn glanced at Sara, who was looking at her uncle as if he was from another planet. Thomas had another look on his face—one of complete bewilderment.

“And who’s Fred?” Lynn asked.

“I’m Fred, you fruitcake,” Jesse said without moving his lips and pointing at the coconut as if he was the world’s worst ventriloquist. “He’s the head of the table. Here, you gotta come around here to see his face.”

Sure enough, Fred the talking coconut, the so-called head of the table, had a painted-on face.

Lynn glanced at Thomas and wondered if he’d seen enough. If he finally understood why she’d never once thought of moving in with this man.