The barn door is already closed. I can hear the goats bleating inside. Even the chicken coop seems to have been tended to—chickens all gathered around what I’m guessing is a feeder, the ground covered in wood shavings. It would seem the evening chores have already been done. Maybe Toby came by?

With no sign of Roy anywhere and not sure what else to do, I climb the porch steps and knock on the door. There’s a creak and an unintelligible mutter, and the sound of feet shuffling across the wood floor before the door opens.

A day later and somehow Roy looks worse than he did lying on the barn floor, bloodied and covered in lumber. The gash on his forehead may be cleaned up, but it’s camouflaged by a mottle of purple and blue bruising that’s extended down to his left eye. His arm is bound with a temporary brace and secured in a sling. Beneath a plain white T-shirt, I can make out the binding that wraps his rib cage.

But probably the most concerning part about his appearance is his ashen complexion.

“Hey … Muriel told me to be here at six to help you with your evening chores.”

He grunts. “Already took care of everything.”

My eyebrows arch. “Seriously?” I remember Simon slipping on an icy sidewalk and breaking his collarbone when I was eighteen. He was bedridden and downing Percocet for weeks. My guess is Roy has a much higher pain threshold than my stepfather, but he also has multiple broken bones.

“Let’s not play this game where you pretend you wanna be here, Calla.” My name sounds odd on his accent. Or maybe it’s that he’s using it at all, rather than calling me a city slicker or “girl.” I wasn’t even sure if he remembered it.

“It’s not about wanting to be here—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s Muriel. I get it. So, let’s you and me make a deal—if that old nag asks, you tell her everyone’s milked, fed, watered, and in for the night. It’ll be our little secret. Everybody wins. So, you can go on home and let me eat my dinner in peace.”

I spy the bowl on his table and the opened can of beef stew on the counter, next to a prescription pill bottle. Painkillers, no doubt. The sticker seal on them hasn’t been broken yet. “So, tomorrow morning—”

“Like I said, I don’t need help. I’ve managed on my own up until now. I’ll figure it out.”

His deathly pale complexion is worrisome, but I’m not about to stand on Roy’s doorstep and argue with him. “Okay, then … Have a good night, I guess?” I edge away.

“You like eggs?” he says.

“Uh … yeah?”

“I hate eggs.”

I frown. “Then why do you have all those chickens?”

“Hold up a sec.” He turns slowly, and I catch the grimace that flashes across his face. Hobbling over to his fridge, he pulls out two cartons and shuffles back. “Here. Got no use for ’em. They’re already washed.”

“I thought you sell them to the diner?”

“You want ’em or not?” he snaps.

It clicks—this is supposed to be a gesture. Of kindness, of gratitude.

From a man who gives nothing for free, according to Toby.

I collect the carton from his waiting grasp, noting how his face may have yet turned a shade paler in the slight excursion to the fridge. “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh,” he adds after a long pause. “Have a good night.”

“You, too.” I leave Roy’s porch, feeling far less relief than I should about escaping a chore list that involves touching udders and shoveling manure.

But all I feel is pity, for an old man who hasn’t done a thing to deserve it.

I smile at the sound of the metal spoon clanging against porcelain. “What are you going to do when Mom figures out you’ve been carbing up after she goes to bed?”

“Vehemently deny it, of course,” Simon mumbles around a mouthful of instant mashed potatoes. I finally discovered where he’d been hiding his stash of Honest Earth Creamy Mash—in the locked cabinet that holds his patients’ files—the only place in the house that is off-limits to my mother.

It’s eleven thirty in Toronto, but my stepfather has always been a night owl. I knew, when I arrived home from Roy’s and texted him to talk, that he would be awake and available. “So? What are you going to do about this cantankerous neighbor of yours?”

“I don’t know. What should I do?”

“What are your options again?”

I sigh. Simon knows my options. As usual, he’s making me work through this on my own rather than giving me the answers I seek. He can’t help it; it’s the psychiatrist in him. “Either I show up there tomorrow morning or I don’t.”

“Okay. So, if you go there in the morning, what will happen?”

“He’ll send me home. And probably yell at me.”

“And if you don’t go …”

“Then he’ll be doing everything on his own, and what if he falls? Or passes out from the pain? What if that bear shows up and makes a run for him?” I rifle through the list of horrible outcomes to Roy being left to his own stubborn devices. “You should have seen him today, Simon. He looked ready to keel over.” Muriel is right. He is a fool, refusing our help.

“So, you feel responsible for his welfare?”

“Responsible? No. But Muriel asked me to help him.” More like ordered, because Muriel doesn’t know how to ask.

“And you don’t want to disappoint her?”

“No, that’s not it. I just …” My words falter. What is it, exactly?

“What will happen if you call this Muriel and let her know that he’s unwilling to let you help?”

“She’ll tell me I must not have tried very hard. And then she’ll be there every morning and night, and I know she doesn’t have time for that. They’re swamped at the resort.” I, on the other hand, have plenty of time.

“So, you’ll feel like you somehow failed her?”

“No, but … she’s helped us out a lot.” Whether I’ve asked for it or not.

“And her opinion matters to you?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Are you sure?” Simon asks in that gentle prodding way of his.

“I don’t know. I guess maybe it does, a little?”

She’s a good girl. Smart, and a hard worker.

I can’t ignore the blip of pride that stirred in my stomach when Muriel said that to Roy, shocked as I was by her edict that I’m the person to help him. So, maybe I do care what Muriel thinks of me. “Plus, I know Roy’ll be angry if I sic her on him.” According to him, we’ve made a pact to keep Muriel out of this arrangement. Everyone wins, he claimed. But it didn’t look like he’s winning anything except a much slower recovery time.

“And his opinion matters to you?”

I snort. “Are you kidding? He doesn’t have a good opinion of anyone. But it’s sad. I don’t think he knows how to let people help him. And I think he’s intentionally offensive to keep people at arm’s length. Or maybe he’s been alone for so long, he doesn’t know how to be anything else.” And yet he made a rare appearance at the Ale House the night of the chili cook-off to thank me for saving Oscar, and to warn Muriel about this potential problem bear. Whether he did those things because he felt the burden of responsibility or was genuinely compelled, I can’t say.