“You’re a fine guest to help out like that, Ronan,” Grammy says. “Your parents have done a fine job.”

I think he means to say thanks, but it almost seems like he doesn’t know how.

When Ronan asks for a dish towel to dry the dishes, Grammy laughs. “No need for that, now. We let God dry the dishes here.” She lumbers toward the TV. “Well,” she says, “it’s time for some Family Feud.”

“Seems like a funny thing to wish for,” Ronan says.

“You’re a funny one, you know that?” She settles into her couch and turns to Ronan again. “Your dad must be waiting on you. You need to head home soon?”

“Naw,” he says. Then he turns to me. “Want to play Monopoly?”

“Our first game took about four hours.”

“So? You won, didn’t you? I mean barely, but you won.”

“Barely? I don’t think so. I wiped the board with you.”

He smirks. “Yeah, whatever. You want to play or not?”

We set up the homemade Monopoly game that my mother made out of paper when she was my age. The board is the real one that she found at a tag sale with Grammy for only five cents, so she decided to take it and make the rest—the cards, the money, and the deeds. Everything but the tokens. We use old coins that Papa found on the beach with his metal detector for those. I choose the buffalo nickel. Ronan chooses the bicentennial silver dollar.

Whenever I use this game, I think about what it would have been like to play it with my mother. I bet we would have been friends if we were the same age.

Ronan gets lucky, getting all of the yellows and greens pretty fast. But I end up with a bunch of the cheaper properties, so we trade money back and forth. The game lasts forever. When we’re finally done, Grammy is asleep on the couch.

I shake her shoulder a bit. “Grammy? Grammy? Wake up.”

She moans and opens her eyes, looks about, and gets her bearings. “Oh, I fell asleep. What time is it?”

“Midnight. Ronan needs a ride home. Or should he walk?”

“Oh no! I fell asleep! His father must be worried sick. Did you call him?”

“Yeah, I did,” Ronan lies. “He says it’s okay.”

I look at him, but he won’t look back.

Grammy stands up. “Well, I’ll freshen up a bit and then we’ll go. You two wait outside, but don’t go disappearing on me.”

We head outside. “So,” I ask, “why did you tell Grammy that you called your dad?”

He puts his hands in his pockets and walks in a small circle. “I don’t know.”

I know he does.

“I didn’t want your grammy to worry or be mad at me. And it makes no difference if I call my father or not. I can walk in at any time.”

Having no curfew sounds good.

And then I begin to wonder if that’s true.