Lila's panting in my ear. The old man, who tells me his name is Robert but I can call him Bobby, won't let her sit in the front with me. Even though she's got the little backseat to herself, she's got her paws up on the back of my seat and is pressing her head between my head and the open window.

The buildings fall away and we are back out in open country again. Not for long, and not as wide open as before. Bobby drives down a bunch of random little roads, passing houses that get smaller and shittier as we go. Dust flying everywhere, lawns that are more scorched dirt than grass.

Bobby pulls into a dirt area that I guess is a driveway. His house is actually a trailer baking in the sun. It's kind of a cross between a house and a trailer. It's got an awning pulled out with a screen draped down from it, and inside the screen area sits a lawn chair next to a little table, making it look like a porch. There's some plants in there too.

The truck bounces to a stop and I wait until Bobby gets out before climbing out of the passenger side, Lila jumping to the ground beside me. She dances out of my reach, still nervous after the collar incident. It isn't until now that I stop to think that I'm gonna have to walk my way out of here, unless Bobby's heading back for an imaginary dinnertime rush.

You're so stupid.

"Home sweet home," Bobby says, parting the screen curtain and holding it aside for me and Lila to walk through. "Bobby Junior's clothes are in a box in the spare bedroom, if you want to come in and sit a spell."

I bob my head.

"The dog can stay out here. Not much space for a dog in here."

"Stay," I tell Lila unnecessarily. She's already found a spot to lie down.

What if he's got chainsaws and hunting knives hung up on his walls, an operating table in his kitchen?

I step up into the old-people-smelling living room of the trailer.

What makes you think you can trust him?

"Shut up," I growl at myself. Bobby's already down the hall so I don't think he can hear me. I thought he was joking about the spare bedroom but it's a pretty big trailer, almost like a little house. Cluttered. There are dirty clothes on the couch, the tables full of dirty dishes and wrappers. Messy. My nose wrinkles at the undercurrent of moldy crusted food and musty newspapers. I think I can even smell how long it's been since he vacuumed this worn carpet here.

I can hear Bobby in back, moving things around, so I take a seat on the couch next to the window so I can look out and keep an eye on Lila. She seems perfectly content to lie out there. I imagine if she'd actually gotten a whiff of Paul she would have freaked out. I should have listened to my own instincts and run.

"Here we are," Bobby says from behind the large box he's carrying. I jump up to help him. "Not sure what all's in here anymore, but I'm sure there's some that'll fit ya."

"Mostly I need a winter coat," I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows at me and I can practically hear him thinking, Winter? It's only September! He doesn't say it out loud, though, and I breathe easy.

The inside of the box smells even mustier than the rest of the trailer. Bobby starts pulling clothes out and flinging them everywhere. "Too big, too big," he mutters.

I begin to wonder if his son simply outgrew these clothes, until I see the shrine.

Not a shrine with candles and shit, but there are a clump of framed photos there on the table next to the television. No dust or used tissues or candy wrappers on that table. I look away before Bobby notices me noticing it.

He dumps a few pairs of pants into my arms, t-shirts and sweatshirts and not one but two winter coats and tells me to try them on. "The bathroom's right past the kitchen."

It's also the size of a closet. I struggle to maneuver in the tight space. Both pairs of jeans fit better than the ones I stole from Paul, and the cargo pants. All the shirts too. The winter coats will be nice and warm, filled with down. I return to the living room.

"Everything fits," I tell Bobby, then shamefully drop my eyes. "But I don't have a bag or anything." I hate to be begging this way. I'd prefer not to have a bag, but with winter coming I should be thinking about gathering supplies. I don't need another winter like last winter.

"Ah, we can scrounge somethin' up for ya." He says this as he is sitting on the couch tuned into the television. Yet he doesn't look like he's going to get up and scrounge around for anything.

Unsure of what to do, I make myself look busy folding the clothes and stacking them neatly on one end of the couch. The television is playing a soap opera, not something I would have expected Bobby to be watching.

Then I hear the snoring, and I know Bobby isn't watching soap operas. He's taking a nap.

Should I take the clothes and beat it? No, Bobby will wake up and his son's clothes will be gone off with some stranger and he'll become suicidally depressed. Should I leave the clothes and take off? I really do need a winter coat, and you can't beat a free one.

I sit down on the other end of the couch.

The soap opera doesn't hold my attention for long. I find myself staring out the window at Lila, who is herself napping out on the makeshift porch. The afternoon wears on until my focus drifts to the inside of the trailer.

It's been so long since I've had any kind of a home that the mess of this one bothers me. Bobby's lucky enough to be able to stay in one place and live here without worrying about winter and starving to death, yet he can't even wash his own dishes. It's been so long since I lived at home with my parents that I don't even remember if I was a neat freak or if my room was as messy as this.

I start by gathering up the trash from the coffee table and floor. I smell the trash can in a cabinet under the sink, overflowing with garbage. I close my eyes and inhale. I catch the faint scent of new plastic in a narrow closet in the hallway and find a box of new trash bags there. Within only a few minutes of cleaning the bag is near to full. Then I start on getting all the dishes near the sink and run the water, using liberal amounts of dish soap.

The housework puts my mind into a lulled, zen kind of place. I don't have to think about anything more extraordinary than scrubbing off crusted eggs and ketchup and tomato sauce overgrown with mold, and dishpan hands. I can pretend I'm an ordinary kid, resigned to doing ordinary chores.

I have finished the dishes and am in the process of sweeping the dirt and food crumbs out the door of the trailer when Bobby says behind me,

"What have you been up to?"

I turn to look at him, a guilty expression creeping into my face. Is he offended that I found his place disgustingly messy? Then I see the smile in his eyes, and my shoulders relax.

"I might have to keep you around, Dannyboy," Bobby says.

Instantly my hackles are up again. No nausea or dizziness this time, just a different voice echoing in my head,

dannyboy dannyboy what have you been up to dannyboy

Lila whines from outside the open door. Her eyes look up at me like she knows something's wrong.

"You interested in some dinner?" Bobby hasn't noticed the way my hands are clamped around the broom handle, or the cold sweat pushing through my pores.

"Sure," I say through gritted teeth.

I hear him rustling through his cabinets. "Let's see... you like mac and cheese?"

I nod, swallow, then say, "Sure," trying to keep that edge out of my voice.

He doesn't know, I tell myself. He doesn't know that's what my father used to call me.

I step outside and lean the broom against the wall of the trailer, and sit in one of the lawn chairs. Lila comes over and puts her head in my lap.

Hug her squeeze her throttle her

My fists remain clenched. Can't touch her – don't want to hurt her.

Staying here is a mistake. Staying here puts Bobby in danger. Lila too. I should be alone, like I've been for the past three years. Monsters don't have pets, or nice lonely men to be their surrogate fathers. Monsters don't deserve these things. And I am a monster.

After I eat, I'll thank Bobby for the clothes and take to the road again. Maybe I can even leave Lila with him.