The carton went in the recycling bin and Paul on a mission, rummaging through the kitchen for more Piggly Wiggly contraband. He found all the good stuff—the cheese in a can, the toaster pastries, the fruit rollups and snack cakes.

“Not the Moon Pies,” I said, laughing even though I was serious. When you grow up like Chet and I did, you don’t waste food, and you definitely don’t throw any away. I came up behind him as he rummaged through the pantry, distracting him with a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Just as long as you don’t find the SpaghettiOs I’m making for dinner.”

He turned in my arms, and the side of his mouth quirked up. “You’re joking, right?”

“Yes, Paul. I’m joking.” I tried to give him a serious look, but I couldn’t hold back my giggle. “We’re having Spam.”

The memory gives me a pang, both sweet and sour at the same time. I calculate how long he’s been gone, picture the map of Lake Crosby in my mind. Twenty-six miles of shoreline—the equivalent of a marathon if you go all the way around, which Paul won’t, and he can’t be moving that fast, not after a run and with that backpack strapped to his shoulders. Still, even with tired legs, he can cover a lot of ground in three days.

But my brother’s right. That pumpkin stuff was the shit.

“Please don’t tell me Annalee threw you out again.”

It’s a logical assumption, because ever since Chet moved into her house, a tiny ranch on the outskirts of town, the two of them have spent half their time breaking up and the other half getting back together—most often loudly and in public. Annalee loves drama, and she loves when others share in hers. He makes a face and I know that I’m right.

“Oh my God, y’all are the most wishy-washy couple I’ve ever met. At what point do you just throw in the towel and take the loss?”

He scratches his head. “Have you two been talking on the phone or something? Because now you’re sounding just like her.”

I inhale long and slow, blow it out even slower. I love my brother, honestly I do, but sometimes I wonder if I’m going to be the only one. Oh, women like him well enough, but then the initial glow fades and shines a spotlight on all his faults. He’s messy. Immature. Aimless and possibly very lazy. But he loves with his whole, enthusiastic heart, which is both his best and his worst quality. He’s constantly getting it smashed to pieces.

I soften my tone. “Want to tell me what happened?”