I landed a summer job at the Best Buy, he said, flatly. I’m making money. I have what I need.

Yeah, except running water.

I can shower at the gym.

I told him that was madness, considering I lived in a practically empty four-bedroom house just six blocks away. He could have an entire bathroom to himself. He looked down and picked at a bit of fluff on one of the ratty wool blankets we were sitting on—I can’t just move in with you.

I’m not asking you to.

So then what happens tomorrow night? And the night after that? You going to kick me out? he asked, and I shook my head. Exactly, so then I’ll just be living with you.

Would that be so bad? I asked. He gave me a wary look. What?

It’s not appropriate, he said, and I smiled to hear my own word echoed back to me.

And letting you sleep in a park, is that appropriate? I asked. He shrugged. It’s also not safe, I said, and he laughed dismissively.

Wolves?

Drug deals, I said, for instance. He batted away the suggestion. Kyle, I’m worried about you.

Then go, he said, suddenly cross, and gesturing to the half-opened tent flap. I don’t need you to be my fucking mother.

Okay.

You’re going?

I won’t be your fucking mother.

We sat there in strained silence, letting the piano and trumpets do the talking.

I like it here, he said, eventually. I actually prefer it. And listen.

He leaned over and turned off the music, and we sat there listening. The Hum penetrated the night. The air seemed to vibrate with it. It’s strong out here, isn’t it? he said.

I can almost feel it in the ground, I replied.

Though even more noticeable to me in that moment, more than The Hum or the crickets, was the sound of our breathing. Kyle glanced at me and then slowly stood up. Stooped over, his head pushed into the top of the tent. He kicked off his shoes, and then casually pulled his t-shirt over his head to take it off.

I’m still soaked from the tuning, he said. He rooted around the tent for something to change into. His chest was smooth and ivory white. I could see the indents of each of his ribs. I heard Ashley’s words scrawny stoner in my head. His abs were clearly definable, but more from virtue of his sheer skinniness. With his back turned to me, he unbuttoned his jeans, pulled them down, and sort of awkwardly stomped out of them, until he was wearing just his baggy navy boxer shorts. I looked down and picked up the record sleeve to read.