Autographed in neat cursive below: RICKY HANNIGAN. 1990 to 1991.

Ricky—the man who warned me about this island before he died—was a Nightlight camper thirty years ago.

“Someday,” Marcos whispers, “we’ll be on this wall.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

RICKY’S DEAD

ONE WEEK AGO

Ario’s recorder rests between my lips as I follow the Reverend up the farmhouse driveway with two stacked dinner trays—one for Mr. Hannigan and one for his mother. “A little piece of me in case you get lonely.” I’d be less lonely if I had my phone to talk to Ario. My saliva soaks in the instrument’s musky, woodsy flavor, but I don’t mind—it’s the closest I’ll get to kissing him for at least another week. Yesterday, the Reverend busted me while I was sneaking off my route to see my boyfriend, so now my Meals on Wheels has to be chaperoned—and who better to tag along than the snitch himself? All day, the Reverend has driven me from delivery to delivery, and as soon as the Hannigans get their meals, he’s returning me straight home like a convict.

This is how it’s gonna be. All because my mom fell into the Reverend’s flock. I’m not angry, I’m just…embarrassed. I’m embarrassed she’s my mother.

“What are all these cars doing here?” the Reverend shouts. Three vehicles crowd the Hannigans’ sloping, asphalt driveway, which is three cars more than usual—Mr. Hannigan and his mother live alone and very rarely leave, hence the meals. The Reverend squeezes between the brick home and a pickup truck parked at an obnoxious slant. When he emerges on the other side, a smear of corn-yellow road dust decorates his neat black shirt. As his growling obscenities litter the air, the sight of the Reverend covered in off-roading trucker shit has magically made my day worthwhile. I hoist the dinner trays over my head and maneuver through the same squeeze without difficulty.

When I reach the broken slab of concrete propping open the Hannigans’ front door, a collection of cheerful window placards greets me: No solicitors. Curb your dog. Hillary for Prison. The stickers may have sun-faded in color, but each one holds steadfastly beneath a wind chime of wood blocks that have been whittled into cardinals and American flags.

Inside the kitchen, the Reverend grumbles as he dabs at his stain with a wet paper towel. The place is empty except for us. All those cars and nobody home. Normally, Ricky’s mother keeps a cinnamon-vanilla candle burning at the kitchen table, but today, the house stinks of too many flowers. Something pungent, an awful overload of sweetness, dominates in a way I will never not associate with my grandmother’s wake. Floral bouquets of death.

“Where is everybody?” the Reverend hollers as he stalks away from the sink, the ghost of his stain refusing to be exorcised. As he disappears around the corner, I set the meal trays on a crusted stovetop burner and twist the creaking oven dial to 350. While it preheats, I follow the Reverend—and the distant drone of a vacuum cleaner—inside Ricky’s dark-carpeted living room. Same as always, an adjustable hospital bed sits in front of the TV like an altar.