The broken houses on the block stirred in the half-light, that lavender glow you only find in damp, cool climates. Children screeched. I could hear the clatter of family suppers. Toys were strewn about in the patchy grass of front lawns. Sam’s house was quiet. Dead. Nothing lively, it seemed, beyond the steps. But when I got closer, I heard a pan clatter. The smell of baking chocolate drifted out over the smell of cat shit. I could hear several people chatting in the kitchen, the others who lived there.

“Get out of my way if you want me to cook!” shrieked Clancy.

I sneaked up the stairs and entered without knocking. Clancy bustled by wearing a thick dirndl skirt. She slammed the oven door.

“Sam? Lance?” I called, walking past her without a word.

In Sam’s room, all the trash had been shoved into one corner. I had never seen the bare floor. Thin layers of dust drifted in the room. Against the wall, his pillowcase was bursting, stuffed with moldy underpants.

“Sam?”

His voice, dimly: “I’m in the tub.”

The bathroom door was closed. I pushed it open and poked my head in. Dank steam swirled, and there was Sam, up to his armpits in gray water, smiling. He held a kitchen pot above his head. He tipped the pot and water ran down. He grinned and spat and snorted. He dipped the pot to fill it again.

I shut the door and sat down on the toilet. Lit a cigarette. He rubbed a bar of green soap over his head, neck, and over the thick fuzz of his face. The water in the tub was dark. A thin film of dead skin floated on top.

He stopped with the soap smeared all over his face and grinned. “I’d forgotten how nice this is.”

My cigarette burned noisily. “What’s the occasion?”

“I decided to turn over a new leaf,” Sam explained. “You want a slightly used set of cap pistols?”

“You mean you’re Sam again?”

“No, the name is Omar.” He soaped up his pits.

“Omar.” I leaned back against the tank, took a last wet puff, handed the butt to Sam.

“No, thanks.”

I dropped the butt between my legs into the brown-stained toilet bowl. Sam threw out his tea leaves in the toilet, I don’t know why.

“Is there a blanket out there someplace?” Sam asked. “My clothes are out there.”

I went out to get the old army blanket that hung out over the sill. It felt like horse hair. Back in the bathroom, Sam stood in the tub, his back and knobby little ass facing me. He poured another pan of water over himself. I threw the blanket on the toilet.

“You’d better rinse with clear water,” I said. “All your ick is sticking to you.”