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Yuki. “Yes, I imagine he is.” When she looks back at Matt, her eyes search his face. “It might make up for stealing a package of cigarettes.”
    Matt’s smile freezes on his face, but his eyes look like they are filling with tears. “I didn’t take—”
    “Don’t lie, Matthew.”
    “But Auntie Alice, I didn’t take the pack.”
    With lightning speed the woman he calls Auntie Annie cracks him on the knee with the spine of her book. Matt lets out a whimper. He covers his face with his arms. Auntie Annie whips the spine of the book against them. As she continues the assault, I can see two of the women from the tent city out back peeking around the edge of the porch. Auntie Alice and Matt’s backs are to them. One of the women sees me and she pulls the other back.
    Aubrey tries to lead me away. He puts a hand on my arm, but I jerk free.
    “Wait,” I say. “I took the cigarettes.”
    Auntie Alice stops her attack on Matt. Her cheeks are bright pink. She breathes heavily. “You what?” she asks. The words come out between breaths.
    “I found them in the gas station store. These guys came in and caught me. He took the pack off of me.” I swing a hand out at Matt.
    Auntie Alice looks hesitantly at him. Matt cowers against the armrest of the porch swing. He’s brought his knees up near his face and has tucked himself into a ball.
    “Is this how it happened, Matthew?” Auntie Alice asks him.
    Matt nods. He’s like a child. Auntie Alice turns. He cries from behind his arms. “I told you I didn’t take them. I told you.”
    She studies me for what seems forever. “Give her the cigarettes, Matthew,” she says. Her smile is as hot as the day and as deadly as the devil’s.
    Matt fishes the pack out of his pocket. It’s a bit crumpled. He tosses it to me. I catch it in one hand and fit the pack into my vest pocket.
    “We have rules here, dear,” Auntie Alice says. “All procurements are stored in the garage and distributed evenly amongst all of us. It’s our way of preventing hoarding or greed. You need to understand things are different now.” She puts that smile on her face again. I’m reminded of an opossum I came across on my journey north. It stood as still as a lawn statue, but it bared its razor sharp teeth. Yuki and I ate well that night.
    I dig the crumpled pack out of my pocket again and toss it back to Auntie Alice. “Keep them,” I say.
    She slides them into the pocket of her sweater. Eighty plus degrees outside and she wears a sweater jacket. “You should take your guest inside,” Auntie Alice says to Aubrey. “Fix her a glass of lemonade.”
    “You have lemonade?” I ask.
    “All the conveniences of home,” Auntie Alice says. Her smile, though closed and not revealing her teeth, feels even more deadly.
    Aubrey motions with his head for me to follow him inside. I start to take my hiking backpack off, but Aubrey tells me to bring it with me. Matt watches us go inside. He does not move from the swing. As the screen door swings shut on the spring, I hear Auntie Alice talking pleasantly to Matt, but I don’t hear what she says.
    In the kitchen, Aubrey opens an old-fashioned refrigerator. I’ve seen these antiques before in other old houses. The door shuts with a click. What surprises me more than the age of the fridge is the glowing light on the inside.
    It feels good to undo the hip belt of the backpack. Next I undo the chest snaps and slip my arms out of the straps. The backpack leans against the wall like the husk of a mutated, giant beetle. I twist my hips. My spine cracks.
    The walls of the kitchen are covered in a shiny white paper with little berries on it. A baker’s rack is littered with dead or dying plants. Hand towels are draped through rings on the side and front of the rack; if someone were to use them, he would probably pull the rack over. The table in here is oval shaped with squared off corners. Its four tan, vinyl covered chairs—seats sitting atop pedestals—have