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“My childhood had no garlic. Or cooking. Or any actual ingredients.” He takes the joint from me and studies the end like it contains history. “Nobody cooked.”

“That sounds… neglectful?”

“It may have been.” He smiles at the pool. “I used to take five bucks from my mother’s purse and ride my bike to Kmart so I could eat lunch in the cafeteria.”

I blink. “Kmart had a cafeteria?”

“Yours didn’t?”

“I don’t know. I was busy being poor in other aisles.”

He bumps my knee with his. “Do you even know what Kmart is?”

I smirk. “I remember. Like Walmart, but fancier.”

Paul nods, satisfied, and passes the joint back.

“At home,” he says, “it was canned soup, frozen dinners, or cereal. Things that could go from microwave to mouth in less than five minutes usually. Kmart at least had sandwiches.”

I picture a tiny Paul in a polo shirt and nice shoes, pedaling down some clean suburban street with a stolen fiver curled in his fist, determined to reach the fine dining establishment of Kmart.

I lie back and laugh up at the sky.

“What?”

“You were a weird little rich boy.”

“I was a resourceful boy. And not rich. That came later.”

“You robbed your mom for cafeteria meatloaf.”

“Turkey. I was scared of the meatloaf.”

The stars have started coming out for real now. I stare at them, the joint loose between my fingers, and the question arrives softened by smoke.

“What was it like?”

Paul turns his head. “Dry usually. I put mayo on it.”

I nearly double up with laughter.

“Not your stupid Kmart sandwich! I mean, like, being a baby Paul.”

He glances at me, then back at the pool. The smile fades slowly.

“Quiet,” he says. “Mostly.”

I sit with that.

He slumps forward a little, elbows resting on his knees, body curved in the low light. I look at his back and hate how badly my hand wants to go there.

“Our house was…” He pauses. “Unusual. Dad was—how do I say it?—eccentric. We all just kind of hovered around that.”

He doesn’t say it sadly. That somehow makes it sadder.

“Eccentric how?” I ask. “Like, dress up as a clown?”

Paul huffs a laugh, takes the joint, and inhales. He holds the smoke for a second, then lets it out like he’s deciding how much of the truth fits the moment.