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.

Clay seems to have recovered from his shock and tries to strike up a conversation. “What was it, Ben, six months since you left the crew? Never did hear why.”

Ben hunches over the skillet. “Pop got pneumonia last spring and almost didn’t make it. I came home to take care of him. Then I fell off my horse in July and was laid up pretty bad. We damn near starved to death ‘til I could get back on my feet. Been slow going since. We’re getting back to it, though. Right, Pop?”

The old man says nothing, but I can feel his eyes glaring at the side of my head. I pretend to look out the busted window, then realize he’s not looking at me. His eyes are locked on Ethan. My shoulders tense. I lean forward to pick up a fork buried in papers on the table and block his view.

Clay continues. “Sorry to hear. You know we’d take you back quick as a lick. Sheriff always said you were a crack shot and a hard ass.” Clay smiles at this. Bennett comes over and slides some eggs onto his plate.

“Can’t leave Pop and he sure ain’t a townie. Won’t leave the homestead. Right, Pop?”

The old man says nothing, but continues to stare at my baby brother. I picture punching this frail, old man in the face. It sounds cruel, but his creepy cataract-filled eyes keep tracking Ethan as he strokes the dog or twirls the rusty butter knife found on the kitchen table.

Clay picks up his fork. “Well, we ’ppreciate the hospitality. Won’t bother you long. We need some fuel and water, which we’ll pay for. Maybe a little shut-eye?”

Bennett sits next to Pop, hunches over the plate and shovels big scoops of yellow into this mouth. Between bites he says, “I can bunk with Pop and you can have my room. Be happy to have ya. Right, Pop?” Pop doesn’t answer.