Fingers tapped his shoulder. A woman with smoothly styled hair and a pantsuit gave him a sympathetic smile, the politeness tempered with sadness, like they were both attending the same funeral. LJ fought back the fury trying to creep up his throat. It was his home, damn it, not a graveyard.

“I’m so sorry to bother you. Is this your place?” the anchorwoman asked. “We’re doing a special on the progress of the rebuilding effort after Katrina. Would you like to be interviewed?”

Of course he didn’t want to be interviewed. He was wearing fucking basketball shorts with his summer church shirt thrown on over them. He’d been doing dishes before his friends came over, not dressing up to be on TV. Which was probably exactly what they wanted to show on their little too-bad-so-sad program about poverty after Katrina.

“No,” he said, to both questions. “But I’m watching this place for the owner, and the family doesn’t want it filmed.”

It might as well be true. The Graviers hadn’t come back after the evacuation. He’d gathered some warped and muddy photo albums for them out of the wreckage of their house, but they’d never called, and a “For Sale” sign never went up. He still had the albums somewhere back in the shed. They’d never said as much, but he was pretty sure they didn’t want to watch the news and accidentally see the place their daddy and little girl had died.

“All right,” the reporter said. “Of course not. Here, take my card. Let me know if you or anybody you know would care to be interviewed. It can be a good way to get increased funding for the rebuilding effort.”

He took the card and jerked a nod. He knew that, and he wasn’t too proud to play the game. The reason his new house had framed up the fastest on the block wasn’t because his fifteen-year-old self had been so good with a hammer. It was because he’d found out where the volunteers were staying, and he’d been down there every morning, smiling his face off, telling jokes, and making friends.

But right now, he wasn’t in the mood. He turned, acutely aware of his plastic sandals next to her designer heels, and went back home.

Andra was waiting right inside the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He closed the door, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders. “They always want to film there, because the porch steps are a couple higher than everywhere else and they stick up good above the weeds. I kept it trimmed down when I was living here, but Mama can’t get the pull start on the Weed Eater to go. Arms too short.” He poked Andra’s arm, working up a smile. “Like you.” He glanced back at the table and her empty water glass. “Hey, you doing okay with the heat?”