He was looking through Connie’s bedside table, hoping to find a piece of her jewelry to pass along to Avery—nothing fancy or expensive; Connie’s jewelry was the stuff you’d buy at a craft fair. She had lots of leather, rocks, and beads. He cringed with embarrassment when he saw an almost-empty bottle of lubrication gel. He heard a noise, and when he looked outside he saw Poppy standing next to a beat-up old Honda Civic.

Poppy!

She stared off into space, deep in thought, like always. Her reverie bought him some time. He snuck into Connie and Ed’s closet, where he inhaled the musty smell of Ed’s big Pendleton wool shirts and Connie’s cardigan sweaters. The smell alone was almost too much for him. In the dark, he listened to Poppy’s footsteps, the thunk of her suitcase. He heard her call out for Ann and Noah. Who was Noah? Was that Ann’s kid, or did Ann have a husband?

When he heard the door shut, he made a run for the sunporch. Just before he ran outside, he paused and considered that this might be the last time he’d ever be able to enter the house. He looked around and jumped up, grabbing one of the ace playing cards nailed to the wall above the door. It came off easily, the nail clattering to the floor.

He stuffed it in the large pocket of his windbreaker and darted outside, wincing when the screen door bumped against the frame when he shut it. He hid behind an old oak tree, sweating and light-headed, watching as the lights went on in each room. He saw Poppy looking out of the windows—she’d heard him, he could tell. After a few minutes, he darted for the barn, figuring she wouldn’t ever look for him there. The door slid open and he gently closed it behind him, his heart thumping wildly in his ears. He felt crazed—what was it about this house, this family? About seeing his old friend Poppy again?

The barn was almost completely dark. It was now dusk. Michael peered beyond the small window and saw Poppy pull some boxes out of her trunk, hesitate, sigh, look around—did she see him? He ducked. When he rose again, he saw the back door close properly thanks to the hinges he’d replaced a few years earlier; that door had never hung right, so he’d used Ed’s plane on the bottom edge. That was perhaps his boldest and most obvious home improvement.

He slumped to the floor. Once his eyes adjusted, he noticed all the familiar tools on the pegboard, the old ham cans filled with screws, nails, and bits, jars of oil, and dirty old rags. He remembered what Ed had told him: “After I kick the bucket, these tools will be yours.”