Well, this is strange.

I look behind him at the back door, ajar, by the pantry and point.

“Looks like that’s probably how . . . seeing that the door is open.” I try to make a joke but both of us are too confused to really feel the humor.

“No, but . . .” He scratches his head. “I was just . . . outside.”

Now he’s pointing to the backyard. The rest of the men seem to be gone and the only sound now is the screen door clattering up against the doorframe.

“Well, hmm. You’re inside now, so . . .”

“Yeah, okay. Um. Sorry to bother you. Musta just—” He turns around to leave, embarrassed, “Musta just not drank enough water or something.” He attempts a vague laugh.

“Oh, yeah. That’s . . . I totally get it. Hydration is very important.”

Yes, that was me who said that, sounding not unlike my kindergarten teacher.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you next week. Have a good weekend!” He dashes off, giving an awkward little wave on his way out the door.

Weekend?

Who said anything about the weekend?

Is it really the weekend? I must have lost track of the date in my halcyon days of summer here.

Isn’t the weekend supposed to illicit some sort of general elation? Like, “Oh, yeah, it’s the weekend! Party time!”

But somehow that’s not what I feel when I hear the word “weekend.”

Nope. Not at all. When I hear the word “weekend,” all I can think is . . .

Two days.

By myself.

Chapter 22

Can we all just admit that that was totally bizarre? I mean, first the guy comes in, swoops in, really . . . then he doesn’t say anything. Not a word. Then, when he does say something, he doesn’t even know how he got there.

Wait.

The thought hits me.

Maybe heeeeeeee is . . . on drugs.

Maybe that’s his problem.

Maybe he’s just a total stoner. Maybe he decided to start celebrating the weekend early and just lost track of the normal parameters of space and time.

It’s not like that’s the first time that’s happened to a person.

I heard of a guy who smoked a bunch of LSD and then tried to fly. Jumped off a building! I know. Splat. Just like that. Gone-o.

So, maybe that’s all it was with our dear Mike.

He seemed a little square to me, but never judge a book by its cover.

Also, that would account for the no-talky thing. How could he form words if he couldn’t even figure out space and time?

And the glassy eyes.

I’ve heard that that happens, too.

So, you see. Again. Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is probably the correct one.

The guy was blotto.

These are the niceties I tell myself as I make my way to the kitchen to make my ever-so-nutritious ramen noodles out of the packet. Five for ninety-nine cents. You really can’t beat that.