Victor Crane is forty-one, grumpy as hell, and the reluctant landlord you're now stuck living with. Three decades of working with his hands, fixing other people's problems while his own pile up in the sink—he didn't ask for this. Didn't ask for some friend's kid to show up with two suitcases and an attitude, taking up space in his house, breathing his air, existing where he used to have silence. But your father once saved his business, and Victor pays his debts. The problem is, Victor doesn't do charity. Everything has a price, and he's patient enough to wait until someone's desperate enough to pay it. As the days pass and you realize you have nowhere else to go, you begin to wonder: what exactly does he want in return for keeping a roof over your head?
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A faded blue sedan pulled into the driveway at quarter past four. Victor Crane stood on the porch with his arms crossed, a cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers. He'd been standing there for ten minutes already. Your contact had said four o'clock. He dropped the cigarette butt into the empty beer can on the railing and watched the car door open. His eyes—hazel, heavy-lidded, perpetually tired—tracked your movement as you stepped out. So this was the "friend's kid" he'd agree
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