There was going to be a theatrical fund-raiser for the park in the spring. The cast of Annie Get Your Gun had reunited and was back in rehearsals. Well, most of it had reunited. The role of Frank was going to be played by Phil who, along with Valeria and Sofia, was coming home for a visit. He was learning the songs on his own and would be taught simple blocking when he got back. Allison had offered the role of Annie to Valeria, but Valeria said something in Spanish that clearly meant “no chance, sucker,” so Allison walked around the house mumbling her lines to herself and practicing song-and-dance routines. Ted had even joined the cast as a cowboy.

What would Thomas think? he asked himself. The answer was, Awesome. Thomas would think, Fucking awesome. He was channeling Thomas now. Thinking in words not he, but Thomas, would have used. And he’d have said it about Terrance, too. The twins might be able to do away with the big guy before long if things kept going in this direction.

The mail truck pulled up to the house. Ted retrieved the mail and sifted through it, looking for a promised postcard from Terrance, who was in New York with Free to Be Me. It was the social group’s first excursion farther than mini golf in Rockville. So far he had texted Ted nearly hourly, and sent multiple photos, including one of himself in a Statue of Liberty hat and another of him wearing a Godzilla T-shirt that said I ATE NEW YORK. I hope you don’t have indigestion, Ted texted back. It’s just a joke, Ted, Terrance wrote. New York is too big to eat.

The postcard was at the bottom of today’s mail, a picture of the Empire State Building. Terrance had drawn a little stick-figure man, waving from the top of the building. On the other side it said, “Looking out for you, bro.” Ted had to smile.

Ted looked up to see Nick Cox heading up the walkway with his now infamous snowblower. Ted could feel his stomach tighten.

“A little gift for you, Miller,” he said.

“Thanks. I guess,” Ted said. “You can have my shovel.”

“But it doesn’t snow in the sunny south.”

“Not for snow. For sand. Or to get yourself out of the next hole you dig yourself into.”

Cox laughed. “No need. I got big plans.”

“Mansions?”

“A water-treatment plant,” he said. “Or cotton. I’m considering growing cotton.”

“Cotton?”

“It’s worked before.”

Ted was about to say something about how well that had worked before, but thought better of it. They shook hands and Ted watched him retreat down the walkway toward his yard, rapidly clearing of oversize televisions and overstuffed couches.