He shoots a finger gun at me and clicks out the side of his mouth. “She’s a quick one, I tell you.” He says it like he’s talking to God, or an imaginary friend.

“So why you here? School tell you I quit?” I lay the guitar in my lap and make chord formations with my fingers, but don’t strum.

“Naw, didn’t tell Irene about work yet. We’re supposed to buy the kid some Nintendo thing for Christmas. She’s gonna be pissed now.” Ash falls on his shirt; he brushes it off before it burns through.

Last Christmas, Irene and my dad gave me a card with five scratch-off tickets tucked in the envelope. I won three bucks on one, but I couldn’t even get the money because I’m not old enough. The card had Merry Christmas to you and yours printed inside. I made my own card for them out of a folded up piece of loose leaf. It said Merry Christmas on the front, and on the inside, Up yours and yours. I drew every letter alternately in green and red crayon. Irene went in the kitchen after I gave it to her at Christmas dinner. She stayed in there a long time and when she came back, her mascara was runny and she smelled like Peachtree, so the card was a success.

“You’ve just been hanging out here when I’m gone?” I ask. I don’t like the idea of him in my space.

“Here or the duck blind. Depends on the weather.” He picks at a callus on the side of his finger until the skin comes off. He just leaves it on the table, this little round piece of skin.

“How long?”

“Week or so.”

“And you didn’t ever wait for me to get home or leave a note?”

“Come on, Ape. I already got Irene on my case.”

“Whatever. You got to go now. I’m writing for my gig.”

“It’s my motorhome.” He gets up and walks into the bedroom at the back and slides the accordion door shut.

I use a piece of notebook paper to pick up his callus and throw it in the garbage.

My dad won the motorhome from Molly Walker in a poker game. It wasn’t even high stakes.