“What’s with the mask, extraño?” he asks me, his eyes narrowing.

Any good feelings evaporate. I shrug.

He turns to Clay. “You bringing fugitives into my home?” His tone slips from friendly to dangerous.

Clay offers up a smile and turns to me. “Cut the act, Riley. Smell’s not that bad.” He nods toward the outhouse. “What you got in that outhouse, Ben, a maggot farm?”

Bennett doesn’t answer. He keeps his cold eyes locked on me.

I got no choice. I slip my bandanna down and offer a weak smile. Bennett scans my face. He’s not happy with what he sees. I keep my eyes on the guns at Clay’s hips.

Finally, Bennett limps into the house. “Y’all hungry?”

Clay leans towards me and whispers, “Stop acting nuts. These are good people.” He disappears inside.

Ethan puts his hand in mine. He looks up at me for reassurance. I got none. I follow Clay into the house with a lump in my throat.

Chapter Ten

The smell inside the house is a strange mixture of body odor, feces and mildewed air. The floor crunches as we step. Dirt, eggshells, and bits of garbage I can’t name litter the floor. In one corner a stack of decaying newspapers is piled so high if it topples, it would crush a small child. In the other corner, a horse saddle is splattered with dried blood. Alarm bells go off in my head as we follow Bennett in through the hallway.

The steady buzz of flies greets us as we enter the kitchen. They’re everywhere—on the dirty plates piled in the sink, on the broken eggshells that litter the floor, on the gelatinous smear on the table. I notice a swarm of them on the floor and realize they’re clustered on a dead rat’s bloated stomach. I swallow bile. Is this what Clay was expecting? A similar look of disgust flashes on his face before he can politely cover it up. Bennett says nothing about the mess. He pulls out a couple of the battered chairs, one with three legs that I perch on carefully. While we sit at the garbage-strewn table, he selects a cast-iron skillet from the dish pile and brown speckled eggs from a basket.

He holds up the eggs. “Over easy? Scrambled? How you like ’em?”

“Over easy, but don’t go out of your way, Ben. We’ve got supplies in the car.” Clay swats a fly off his arm.

Bennett cracks eggs into the skillet with deft fingers. “Least I can do. Things are tight ’round here, but we’ve always got good laying hens. God, I eat so many eggs one day I’ll turn sunny side up.” Bennett’s laugh is hollow and tragic. I can count his ribs from the table.

The old man shuffles in and plunks in a stool to my right. Thankfully, he’s pulled on some ratty long underwear. His chest is still bare and he’s even thinner than Bennett. His ribs ripple down his chest like a washboard and his collarbone juts out like jar handles. The pure desperation in this place weighs on me heavy. I glance between Ethan and the door. Should I signal him to bolt? His attention’s drawn to a skinny hound under the table. The dog gives Ethan’s hand a pathetic lick and then slumps lazily at his feet.