The TV was now emitting the sounds of Johnny Carson, and his neck ached from having lain atop his bed while half-propped up by his pillow. Petunia was in the crook of his arm. He gently put her into his duffel, on top of a small stack of folded, prized L.L. Bean shirts.

His mouth was dry. He exited his room, looking left toward his mother and Llewelyn’s bedroom. The door had been closed since earlier that afternoon. He considered knocking — he had not talked at length with his mother since the previous night, after his father and Greta had left — but rejected the idea. There would be talk; there would have to be talk, but for that moment he had energy enough only for solitude.

He made his way down the oddly steep staircase, holding on to the one railing that had been attached, when they’d moved into the house, lest his sock-clad feet send him on an accelerated trajectory to the kitchen by way of his ass. The house was quiet. Outside, there was a car horn, followed by loud, indecipherable shouting.

In the kitchen, he retrieved his favorite glass — a souvenir from their last trip to Maine, adorned with a red lobster cartoon that was fading rapidly from repeated incursions into the dishwasher. He wanted a Coke, and knew that there would be no soft drinks in the refrigerator. He contented himself with the last of a bottle of cranberry juice, and made his way to the small utility room that led to the back patio. His socks suddenly felt damp.

“SHIT!!!”

He had forgotten about the flood — a leak in the roof had been steadily worsening, to the indifference of the landlords, and the last three days of rain had left the 20 or so square feet of warn, stained linoleum covered with a quarter-inch of musty water.

He hoped that his mother hadn’t heard him. His feet squished uncomfortably. He opened the back door with a creak, padded onto the concrete patio, and dropped himself into the folding chair that Llewelyn left there for his evening Sit-and-Reads, as he called them. Tonight, it would be sit-and-feel-tormented.