“Reverend Packard, we were hoping that was you,” says the woman with short, severely parted hair. The Reverend hacks his throat clear as Mrs. Hannigan blindly devours pretzel fish. I resist the urge to thrust my hands into the air.

“I’m Special Agent Rhodes,” the longer-haired woman says, gesturing first to herself, then to the woman beside her. “My partner, Special Agent Elms. You remember us, don’t you?” They wave badges that chill my blood like I’ve been injected with IcyHot menthol: FBI. They’re not detectives; they’re FBI agents.

“You’re searching the place again?” the Reverend asks, keeping a wary distance. “Ricky’s body isn’t even cold. We’re still grieving—”

“I invited them,” Mrs. Hannigan chimes in.

“You’re upset.”

“I don’t care about anything anymore.” Mrs. Hannigan gobbles another Goldfish while the Reverend tries (and fails) to deep breathe himself into a lighter shade of beet red.

“We just want to ask you some more questions about Ricky,” Agent Elms says, pocketing her badge.

Holy shit, holy shit. They want to ask the Reverend about Ricky. Is it about him dying? If Ricky died from an infection, why are they here, acting like they’re looking for a murderer? Did his medical aide mess up? They wouldn’t call the FBI in for that. The Reverend said the agents had been here before to search Ricky’s home, and the agents wanted to ask him some more questions. More. They’re grilling him.

“The night Ricky was injured—” Agent Rhodes begins, but the Reverend bounds forward, outstretching his arms the way he greets local truckers at Sue’s Diner. His smile is supposed to be jovial and winning, but with his size, Agent Rhodes takes an instinctive, retreating step back.

“Whatever I can do to help, agents,” the Reverend says before ticking his head in my direction. “But this is a talk we better have in private, don’t you think?”

All eyes float toward me. In a single breath, I blurt, “I’m just Meals on Wheels; I don’t know anything.”

The pressure crushing my neck releases once everyone agrees that I’m an invisible nobody who can be no help whatsoever to this investigation. On his way upstairs with the agents, the Reverend squeezes Mrs. Hannigan’s shoulder; a gesture either to comfort her for her loss or to communicate We’ll talk later about how pissed I am that you called the FBI.

Both, probably.

“The night Ricky was injured…”

This isn’t about his infection at all; it’s about his original injury.

My feet turn to ice inside my flip-flops as I’m left alone with Ricky’s mother and his empty, haunted bed. The first time I met Ricky, he called me “cute.” He was never vague about being happy to see me. Maybe he was into me, but I don’t care—he was never creepy about it. The Reverend explained that Ricky had good days and bad; that he had limited use of his body below the neck; that it was difficult for him to communicate verbally or even through writing, but his thoughts were still there. Nobody ever explained how Ricky got into this situation, but I never thought it was for a reason that would require the Oh-My-God FBI. Now I wish I’d Googled him when I had the chance. Good luck doing that at the moment, with no phone or laptop.