Free Bones & All by Camille Deangelis

does,’” I said. “Like there are others.”
    â€œWhat, like we stick together or somethin’?” Sully laughed as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table, where Mrs. Harmon had savored her eggs and bacon a few hours before. “Get together for poker on Thursday nights?” He laughed again, a big jolly laugh, like I could close my eyes and picture a gin-swilling, chain-smoking Santa Claus—except he was so lean I could see his bones poking through his shirt. “You’re on your own, and you always will be. That’s the way it’s gotta be, get it?”
    I leaned in the doorway and folded my arms. “That sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
    â€œMissy, you got a lot to learn. You may be dangerous to a whole lot of people out there, but that don’t mean there ain’t a whole lot of people who can hurt you just as bad. Can’t come near your own kind, not if you wanna keep your face.”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œWhat about me?”
    â€œYou just said I should stay away from you.”
    â€œAh, but I ain’t like you, and you ain’t like me. You got a pulse, and I ain’t been a teenager since the nineteenth century. That’s how we can sit down for a meal together, see?”
    I felt my belly rumble at the mention of dinner, but something he had said made me stop short. “How did you know?” I asked. “That I … that I eat…?”
    â€œWho else you gonna eat, at your age?” He chuckled, and I smiled.
    â€œAre you really that old?”
    The old man clucked his tongue. “I seen it all, but I ain’t anywhere near a hundred.”
    â€œHave you met a lot of us?”
    â€œHere and there,” he said with a shrug. “But like I said, it’s best not to make friends.”
    It wasn’t just Sully’s ear—he was missing most of his left index finger too. He saw me looking at it and held out his hand to me, waggling his digits as if he were a young girl expecting me to admire her engagement ring. “Lost it in a bar fight,” he said. “Bit it clean off, the bastard. Swallowed it before I could get it back.” He got up from the table and started opening cabinets. He took out a skillet. “You hungry? I’m gonna make us some dinner.”
    â€œYou’re still hungry?”
    â€œI’m always hungry.” Sully grabbed a bunch of onions and potatoes from a bowl on the counter and dropped them on a chopping board. “Git over here and make yourself useful. I’m gonna show you how to make a hobo casserole.”
    I picked up a knife and chopped an onion in half. “What’s in a hobo casserole?” I couldn’t resist. “Hoboes?”
    When he laughed he threw back his head and actually slapped his knee. “Nah, nah. Just whatever you got to hand.” He opened the refrigerator and poked through one of the produce drawers. “Let’s see if she got some ground beef in here … ha! Got some carrots too.” Sully turned on the oven—“Four hundred,” he said over his shoulder—and pulled the meat out of the wrapper with his bare hands. I could still see the blood around his cuticles. I’d have to try not to think about it.
    I watched him find his way around the kitchen, pulling down two tins of baked beans and fiddling with the electric can opener. Leaving the meat and vegetables to cook, Sully homed in on the Tupperware cake box, pulled off the lid, and leaned in for a sniff. “Mmm, what’s this?”
    â€œI think it’s carrot cake.”
    â€œMade her own frosting too. Cream cheese. Looks mighty tasty.” He replaced the lid and looked at me. “What were you doin’ with her, anyway?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. “She asked me to help her with her groceries, and then she invited me in for breakfast.”
    â€œThen she got tired and