I got home around eight that night. Since it was Friday, the other residents of the trailer park were having a bonfire and cookout in the open area I’d cleared out for that purpose years ago. The chill of winter was still in the air, but it was tolerable. I parked Dave—my old Dodge pickup—near the other vehicles and ambled toward the crowd.
“Evening, folks,” I said as I stopped near the fire. A chorus of “hellos” greeted me.
Bud Reinholt, a sixty-seven-year-old retired veteran who’d been living here for two years, called out to me from where he manned the grill. “You hungry, Adrian? We’ve got lots of grub.”
“Thanks, but I ate earlier. Sara,” I addressed the sixty-five-year-old widow and former head nurse standing next to Bud with an empty plate, “I’ll be over to fix your sink on Sunday
