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he said. And perhaps that’s why I open my mouth and spit out, “My grandpa died the last time we got evicted.”
    Old Man couldn’t look less impressed with my horror story. “Yeah, well, that’s what grandpas do. They die.”
    I wince. “You know, you’re a real piece of work.” I start to stand up, but the man’s face softens and he holds up a hand to stop me.
    “All I mean is, your grandpa isn’t here anymore. So that has nothing to do with what your family is facing now.”
    My head lowers, and though it angers me so bad I could spit, my bottom lip trembles.
    “Oh, man.” The old guy runs a hand through his wild, white hair. “You’re one of those, huh? Got it in your head that you somehow killed the man, don’t you? I heard kids do that. Find a way to take ownership of tragedy.”
    “If I’d been there, he’d still be alive,” I say in a whisper. It’s the last thing I can say about it. No matter what he comes back with, no matter how upset he makes me. Not one more word about me and Grandpa and that day .
    The man stands up, and gazes toward the sun, then back at me. “You can call me Rags, I s’pose.”
    I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. “Wh-what?”
    The old man scrunches his face like he’s trying to figure me out. “You were right about those cuts. I was a few degrees off.” He points at me, and his tone hardens. “But it wasn’t no three degrees. It was two. Maybe less.”
    “It wasn’t less than two,” I respond.
    He shoves his hands into jeans that sit too high on his waist. “No. No, I guess it wasn’t.” When I don’t respond, he stands up. “You gonna keep crying after I leave?”
    “I’ll cry if you don’t leave.”
    That does it. The man—Rags—laughs. It’s more a bark than anything else, but it makes me smile. He squints in my direction. “You really that good with math and all that?”
    I square my shoulders. “I am.”
    “Well, come on, then.” He turns on his heel and walks away.
    “Am I supposed to follow you?” I yell.
    “Can if you want,” he responds without looking back. “No one’s making you.”
    I glance in the direction of my house and wonder if I should go back home. Zara must be confused as to what’s going on, and I hate to think of her worrying. But Rags’s orange vest is like a beacon of hope against my future, and I find myself trudging after him.
    Magnolia would flip out if she caught me following this dude through the woods. But we aren’t in the woods long, thank goodness. Rags leads me on the same route I walked a few days ago, and soon we’re stopped in front of his house. He fidgets, and I realize he’s nervous. This makes me nervous. What the heck was I thinking? The first thing my mother ever taught me was a lesson about strangers and not going with them.
    “I’m thinking I might show you something in my work shed,” he says.
    “Welllll,” I drawl. “If that’s not the creepiest thing anyone has ever said …”
    He rubs the back of his neck. “Can you keep a secret, kid?”
    “My name is Astrid, and I’m really thinking this is the part where I run home and call the cops.”
    He ignores my commentary and instead stomps between his house and the neighbor’s house, muttering the entire way. I stay rooted in place, watching him go. Craning my neck, I make out a shed in his backyard, cream colored with blue trim. It’s the size of a one-car garage, with a tired roof. He pulls a key ring from his pocket and unlocks the door. Only when he’s taken a couple of steps inside does he holler, “You coming?”
    “Nuh-uh,” I reply.
    Rags glances around to check if anyone’s listening and then says, “Astrid, I’m never going to make this offer again. Not to you. Maybe not to anyone. So you can come and have a look, or you can go home. It’s no sweat off my back.”
    Dead bodies. There has to be dead bodies in there. Or maybe a lifetime supply of orange vests, lightly splattered with inconspicuous blood