He’s obviously joking as much as I am, but even so, his words have me pressing a smile into my kneecaps as I sit scrunched on the kitchen floor. For the first time in months, I’m actually glad that Pops isn’t around. If he were, he’d be razzing me into next Tuesday over this cheesy grin of mine. This is the kind of smile that gets its way. I try to forcibly pull the corners of my mouth down but as soon as I let go, they’re boinging back into a crescent moon.

“What can I say, Hoffman? I’m in high demand.”

“Well, I’ll just have to find a way to distinguish myself from these other losers. How many points do they have?”

“You realize you just referred to them as ‘other losers’. Meaning that you yourself are also a loser, yes?”

“I’m nothing if not honest with myself.”

“Hoffman, you’re not a loser.”

“JD, I was messaging my little sister in the middle of the night because I couldn’t sleep. That makes me at least twenty percent loser.”

Sister, he said? My brain immediately takes that little piece of information and strips it for parts. Was he just chatting? Or was he intentionally letting it slip that it was his sister he’d meant to message and not another woman? Does he want me to know that he wasn’t booty-calling someone?

“No way. You’re wrong.”

“You don’t think that makes me a loser?”

“No, I just think twenty percent was a little too high. I think it makes you fifteen percent loser.”

“You’re a kind and benevolent god.”

“I do my best.”

I’m staring at my phone, waiting for another message to pop through and give me a happy little coronary when a distant—and unfortunately familiar—sound catches my ear.

It’s next door’s smoke alarm.

Oh, my God. This is literally the fourth time in two months that Mr. Sawyer has set off his alarm in the middle of the night. Apparently the man takes sleeping pills that knock him out but also give him a hankering for nighttime toast. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve reminded him to unplug his toaster before bed. It’ll be T-minus thirty seconds before tiny, balding Mr. Sawyer is knocking on my door in slippers and a bathrobe, rubbing his eyes and telling me he has no idea what happened but there’s smoke in his kitchen.

I consider going into the back bathroom and locking the door, letting Mr. Sawyer figure out his smoke alarm on his own for once. But then I think of Pops, hopefully getting a good night’s rest in his care facility, trusting me to take care of the people around him. Pops wouldn’t hide from Mr. Sawyer. Pops would already be pulling his boots on.