Stunned and emotional best described me. So many times, I wished I could tell him the truth about Travis’s death.

“I thought the FBI had sanctioned this assignment,” I said.

“Investigating it only. But the kid needed more evidence for protection detail, so you’re stuck with us.” Isaac stepped out of the car, and for the first time, I noted a rounded belly. “We are your best defense. Them young agents have more training than real-life experience. Trip over their own firearms.”

Isaac disappeared up wobbly, concrete-block steps and inside the metal structure. I tilted my head to study my “temporary housing,” as Denton called the situation. No broken windows, but a screen door rested on one rusty hinge. Weeds grew from under the mobile home as though they tickled its belly, and a thick layer of yellow-green pollen covered every visible inch of grass and metal and foliage. I was allergic to most substances that existed outside, and my inhaler weighed in at nearly empty. At least I had a spare for emergencies.

The structure looked more like it hadn’t seen human habitation in decades. I’d say in the last fifty years except power lines were connected to whatever needed electricity inside. An oak tree leaned precariously close to the roof, defying the next gust of wind to blow it down. A crow swept from the treetops and perched on the roof. When the bird cawed, it sounded like a protest against the intruders. A fat tawny cat crept in front of the car, offering a little reassurance to the reduction of mice and rats.

Isaac left the mobile home, shoving the broken screen door back until it broke. His stocky build served him well. He tossed it into the weeds and signaled for us to join him. “Looks like no one’s been here since us.”

I moaned.

Aaron laughed. “Hey, Ike, I’ll get the cleaning stuff from the trunk. And the extra rifle and ammo.”

Not their first rodeo.

For the next four hours we cleaned. Isaac tuned in an old radio to country-and-western music, and Aaron took every opportunity to switch to hard rock, which took me off guard. He claimed Def Leppard, Guns N’ Roses, and Bon Jovi were the best of the eighties. Isaac argued that Willie Nelson, George Strait, and Kenny Rogers sang the heart of the south.

While I listened to their musical debate, which replaced thoughts from my own fears and distress, I disinfected the kitchen, top to bottom and inside out. Remarkably, the spotless and disinfected fridge hummed, and cold air swirled from the motor, a miracle considering the dust and dirt now covering most of me. Two out of the four burners on the electric stove burned hot, and the oven, after I wiped up a dozen dead roaches, even worked. I wasn’t a stranger to roaches, but I’d never seen so many in one place. . . . Many scurried about, still alive.

My lungs tried my body’s patience. Neither had a tolerance for the outside allergens and the inside dust. I bent and gasped for breath until I gave in to using my inhaler.