By four that afternoon, Truman had to admit they had a huge problem. It seemed like everyone in town had dropped off jars. One after another, they came into Thorn with boxes of jars. And not just business owners but random people on the island.

Truman had turned someone away who’d just brought in a bag of dirty peanut butter jars.

“We need to be clearer about what kind of jars we’re looking for,” Truman said, trying not to breathe in the stench of old peanut butter.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Ash said, and Truman realized that maybe there had been something to his intention to write an email to the local shopkeepers detailing what he wanted.

But the straw that broke the camel’s back was someone named Darnell Waters. There was the beeping that signaled a truck backing up and then a shout from outside that sounded like “Yo, Ashleigh!”

Ash let out a long-suffering sigh, and Truman followed him outside. There, half in the street, was a garbage truck.

A skinny white guy with shockingly blond hair jumped down from the cab and pointed to the back. “You wanna go through and get the jars?” he said.

Truman couldn’t tell if he was serious, joking, or being an asshole.

“You know what, Darnell, I’m actually good on jars for the moment. I’ve gotten a lot of them today.”

“Oh,” he said. “There are some really good ones in there, though, probably.”

“Yeah, I appreciate it, but I’m not going to sort through the recycling for them. That’s why I asked people to save them for me.”

“Oh.” Darnell seemed disappointed. “Maybe next week?”

“Nah, I’m honestly never going to want to sort through the recycling for them. But thanks for thinking of me, Darnell.”

Darnell climbed back into the cab and rolled the window down.

“Okay, well, I’ll save you some good ones, though. See you next week.”

He waved and drove away.

Ash let out a bone-deep sigh and lifted his face to the sky.

“I’m sorry,” Truman said. “I did this, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ash said. “It was nice of you to tell people for me, really. You couldn’t know that people really, really like to help.”

He said help like you might say desecrate the dead.

“Yeah, I think I’m getting that. Do you know that guy?”

“Yup, we went to high school together. He…uh…means well?”

“Clearly,” Truman murmured.

***

That night, Truman was working on a spread in his bullet journal and listening to ShadowCast, which made him miss Horse. He’d given up on having a notebook for Ash. Ash didn’t write anything down, just seemed to remember everything. But Truman liked a clear accounting of everything, so he’d been keeping it in his own journal.