Ben’s room was bare of anything personal, a small room, painted sheetrock, bright green, absent of ornament, as though its occupant could be anyone. It had the appearance of a shabby guest room in a house where guests rarely came. Ben had no heroes taped to his walls, no pictures of himself or his family, nothing that spoke about his past before Chapel Hill. If he had ever won any trophies during his sports career—he had also been a wrestler in high school—he refused to display them. A suitcase sat in the corner, clothes wadded and twisted; the closet, though, was bare except for a hunting rifle, what looked like a toolbox, half a fishing rod, and a stack of old board games: Clue, Monopoly, Parcheesi, Risk, The Game of Life, Twister. A backpack, a baseball bat, a catcher’s mitt, a basketball mostly deflated. Oddly enough, he had no football anywhere to be seen.

Something prevented Ronny from looking in the drawers: maybe fear of Ben’s temper; maybe some sense of honor about Ben’s privacy; maybe just reluctance. He felt as though he had been here much longer than he had. Close to Ben, happy as he had ever been; unsettled by the circumstances, watching the family suffer, watching the mother fight for her life, the father bewildered, the son fearful, all of it laid bare.

Downstairs, father and son were at ease in the kitchen with the smell of frying bacon. Ben was cooking; he had already made coffee and it was perked by the time Ronny arrived. He poured a cup for himself.

Mrs. Nickelsen lay in the hospital bed, her eyes closed, the room darkened with the drapes shut. She was wearing a housedress and resting on top of the blankets, as if she had just settled there. Ronny stood in the door and watched and then went back to the kitchen table to sip coffee next to Mr. Nickelsen, who was already dressed for work.

“You going to run this morning?” Mr. Nickelsen asked.

“I think I’ll skip it.”

“Nice of you to make bacon.”

Ben was gruff, staring at the frying pan, ignoring the rest of the world. “You don’t have to say bullshit you don’t want to, Dad. I know you appreciate food.”

Mr. Nickelsen laughed. He turned to Ronny. “This is what I get, you see? This kid never wanted to be thanked for anything in his life. I never seen the beat of it.”

“Thanks is just talk. People talk shit to death and what good does it do?”

“All I mean is you should let a person say thank you when he means it. You know.”

Ben looked at him, tapping the spatula on the edge of the iron skillet. “I’m glad to do stuff for you even though I’m a rat-fuck son of a bitch to you most of the time.”

“And vicey versey.”

“We may be fuck-ups but we don’t mind admitting it.”

“You got to emphasize your good qualities, son. But I tell you, the world will be just as glad to fuck you for them as it will for your bad ones.” Scratching dry skin from his ears, which were sprouting curly hairs along the edge.