“Seriously,” she said, “were we in school together?” She wasn’t trying to be mean. (She didn’t have to try. It came naturally.) She only recognized him as her grandparents’ neighbor.

“There’s just the one high school, Reagan.”

“Yeah, but you’re a lot younger than me, right?”

“I’m two years younger than you.”

“Really? I thought you won the state wrestling thing when I was in college.”

“That was my brother, Brook.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We were in band together—you and me.”

“I think I blocked that out. I hated band.”

“I could tell,” he said. “You were terrible.”

“I didn’t even play half the time. I just moved the clarinet around.” She reached in her pocket for cigarettes. She didn’t have any. She hadn’t had any for years. “Sorry I don’t really remember you.”

“That’s all right. We were all trying to stay in your blind spot anyhow.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you were mean as shit.”

“I was not.”

“Yes, you were—you called my friend ‘Mr. Toad.’ ”

Reagan cackled. “You were friends with Mr. Toad?”

“I was.”

“How’s he doing?”

“All right. He manages the nursing home.”

“Oof. What a time to work at a nursing home.”

“Yeah . . .”

They were quiet again.

“Your grandpa is careful,” Mason said, like he could hear her worrying. “Your parents come by, and they talk through the storm door.”

“That’s good,” Reagan said.

“I should have salted his driveway.”

“What?”

“I didn’t realize it had iced up, or that he was having company.”

“Oh God, don’t worry about that—that’s not your job.”

Mason shrugged. His hands were in his coat pockets. “Well . . .”

“He says you shovel the walk, so the mailman can get up to the porch.”

“Only if your dad hasn’t come by.”

“Well, that’s still nice of you. Thanks.”

“It’s nothing. I didn’t do it to impress you.”

Reagan made a face. “Why would you do it to impress me?”

“I . . .” Mason was probably making a face that she couldn’t see. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Anyway,” she grumbled, “I’m not that impressed.” Reagan should go inside. She should sit on her grandparents’ couch and scroll Instagram and silently judge everyone she knew for having big-ass family dinners. “So you work from home?” she asked. “I mean, remotely?”

“Yeah,” Mason said.

“What do you do?”

“I fact-check audio content for news websites.”

“That does not seem like a job a real person would have.”

He laughed into his mask. “My eight-year-old self would be mortified, but it’s interesting work.”

“What did your eight-year-old self want to be?”

“Professional rodeo cowboy. What about you?”

“Oh, my eight-year-old self would be thrilled with my life. She just wanted to get the hell out of Arnold.”

Mason laughed some more. He leaned against his deck railing. Reagan took half a step back from hers.