It'd become plain to me that all I really ever wanted since I arrived was to escape. The house had plumbing of sorts, but the yard outside was running over with rain... and it brought up the sludge of our past meals, for all to smell. With that, they were forced to lower the price by a smidge. I didn't know much about the cost of a house, but from what I remembered of selling my grandmother's old clothes, she'd probably been asking for too much to begin with.

When my grandfather finally left for good, it was because the house had finally been sold to a pair of buyers. They planned to turn it into an inn, because in their words, "it was a lovely home, with so many rooms – it breathes with a vibrant history". It shocked me to hear such praise, because the way I'd been told to see it was as nothing but a property; the history of it had been miserable and somewhat violent; and the way it had been packed with family members, the rooms were hardly enough for each one. The sale would take time, and we were allowed to prepare for the deed's transfer in time to harvest our backyard crops. The toughest part was convincing the local priest to annull their marriage, but when they started arguing in front of him, it was over whose fault it was that the pen didn't seem to work. It was a touch dry, and the stamen of the feather was rough from cracking. It dragged on the page and flicked some black ink at both their clothes, and what started as a bickering became a full-blown bothering. Swears were shouted, he threw a vase, she denounced him as a husband and said he should never marry again. The priest annulled their marriage from behind his podium, as quickly as he could. On their way out, they shook his hand and took a sip of wine for the road.

Left in peace enough by then, I kept to the yard as I always did. But The Rater saw that I was getting older, and began to worry. On one hand, her and I had formed an understanding: since her divorce from my grandfather, and during all the strife, she'd learned that I was indispensable; I did all my work without complaining, and compromised instead of negotiating. I finished what was asked of me without being paid, and I ate within my means. She stopped asking me to pursue work, because I think she'd done the math: I was already a full-time live-in landscaper. She couldn't pay another man in the entire town for the kind of convenient labor I did just for food. Now, gardening, I was lost at. I could harvest vegetables, but I couldn't take care of flowers to save my life – and I kept overwatering everything. So it was berry-picking that kept me busy, while she saw to the flowers herself. Pleasant as my task was, it didn't keep me from wanting to return to the other end of Fogborn, in the home where I was raised. So she pulled out her very last stop: she revealed something to me which she'd kept hidden from me, for years.
"Reaper," she said, looking nervous. "I don't want you to think poorly of me for this, but..."
I became nervous as well, and almost wondered if I wanted to hear this. "Yeah?"
She clenched her teeth slightly, and sighed. "The reason I didn't tell you about your parents is because I didn't want you to leave before the yard was done. My husb- ex-husband, claimed he could do it all himself. I knew he couldn't, not between gambling and sailing abroad."
I sighed, and crossed my arms. "I'd guessed as much, but thank you for admitting it. Who were they?"
"We don't know who your mother is, she's a mystery to us. But your father was our son... we called him The Illustrator."
My guts shook, and my heart started to beat. This was the first I'd heard of him since I arrived.
She looked hesitant to keep talking. "We raised him, with his sisters. But he's not around anymore."
I sat down on a stump, bucket of berries in my hand. They were going to rot if I didn't grab them today, but I wanted to hear this. This was news. "What was he like?"
She sighed. "He was... angry, and kind of stupid, if I'm being completely honest. He never owned up to anything he did wrong, and he was always running away from his chores to draw things in his room. He'd spend days locked up in there, all by himself. He never talked to anyone else, never dated any girls, never spent time with the family. All he cared about was being with his friends. And he stole snacks, sometimes, and argued with his father. He used to hit his siblings, and call them names. He'd be so smart, one second, and say these deep things you couldn't imagine... and then he'd follow it up with a joke. A really mean one, actually."
I asked, "How mean?"
"He reminded me of my first husband, who was quite cruel when he wanted to be. But then unlike my first husband, he'd laugh it off and apologize, instead of letting it sear you. So, he was better, I suppose."
"Who was your first husband?"
She shook her head, as if remembering a ridiculous ordeal. "A man who used to steal farm equipment and sell it, but he was taken in by road patrol. He gave some things back, and they made him an officer. But he was violent at home, and selfish. Incredibly vain, actually. I'd even say a narcissist. You could call him a Robber, if you want – I know you like using titles instead of names."
I nodded. "It's a habit I picked up from a friend. He always told me to call him... well, anyway. Was... The Illustrator a narcissist?"
She swayed her head, picked up a shovel from the corner of the garden fence, and put her hands on the end to lean her chin on. "Sometimes. They were a lot alike, him and The Robber. Sometimes more than his own father, and they didn't get along very easily. He left after my eldest had her children, and he never came back. Said he was going out to the mountains to train, and I never saw him again." She looked... sad.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said.
"Yes, well." She sighed again. "To be honest, you look a lot like him, if a bit thinner. And less hairy. But unlike him, you actually do what I ask of you, when I ask you to do it. Even my youngest daughter can't do that... forgive me, you haven't met her. Maybe you will someday."
"So I'm a better sort?" I laughed.
"By a margin, if we're counting. You don't lie, or steal things. Or blow up at people, and then avoid them... though don't think I haven't seen you lose your temper at your cousins. If anything, you're a little too friendly. It's kind of a shock... it's like half of him came back, and half of him didn't."
I was feeling guilty about something I couldn't perceive. Was I... making things worse, by being here? I asked, "Are you sure you don't know who my mother was?"
She shrugged. "You were left here one day, by a dirty gypsy wench. I think she might have stolen you. She probably left you here just because she saw us eating campfire roasts outside, and figured you'd be well fed."
I was confused. "But I didn't grow up here."
She leaned the shovel forward, and back again. "Your legs, and mouth. We couldn't take care of you. You were like a little spider, or something, all split at the lip and mangled below. We took you to The Surgeon, and he promised to look after you during your surgeries. Paid for them with your grandfather's help, The Mentor. I had to take you a few towns over, actually, for some of the operations."
I blinked. "I don't remember that at all."
She shook her head. "Your father had some similar birth issues, actually – that's how we knew you were his. But his weren't fixed quite as nicely, and I think he held resentment for that. He never did get rid of that limp of his."
I crossed my arms. "But I remember living with The Surgeon, and The Teacher."
She laughed. "We couldn't afford you, and you didn't seem, and I don't mean to offend you, very present. Much like your father, you were always in a daze, or a world of your own... just, far less angry about it. And odd. That child was so odd!" She laughed again. "He was always doing these things, like putting food up his nose, and making jokes way too filthy for his age. I'm not surprised he never met anyone until he left, he was terribly shy. Clung to me because he was afraid of girls. Strong as an ox, and afraid of women!"
I grinned, but was kind of anxious. "Well, thank you for telling me that. I appreciate it, even though you kinda waited till the last minute."
She looked confused, for a second. "Didn't your aunt tell you already?"
I shook my head. "No, she didn't. She treated me like I was the same as him, though, looking back. Always accused me of being passive aggressive towards her sons. I don't think she expected me to be as patient as I've been trying to be."
She swayed her head again. "Sometimes. You've got an impatience yourself, y'know – I saw how dismissive you were of your grandfather. I know why -I- argued with him, because he's a stubborn jackass. I'm glad to sell this ring," she said, looking at her hand. A little gold band she'd always worn, but dulled. "But he did so much for this family, too. I just don't understand why the two of you couldn't get along."
My stomach sank... I decided to just be honest. She'd already cut a hole the shape of him out of her life, so maybe it was time that I could do the same. "Because there's something wrong with him," I told her. "He's strict for reasons that don't make any sense. I still remember him barging into my room once, or when he wouldn't let me change in a bush. Or how he struck the youngest with his belt, on Yule."
She looked uneasy. "Well... I'm not sure about that. Always telling jokes, but never letting anyone else be the star of the room. Picking fights with my relatives. He was a very good actor, and seemed to enjoy our romance more for his own sake than for mine. Like it fed him to decide love, but not to compromise on it. In fact, he rejected all meetings anywhere near the middle. It made me feel like I wasn't good enough. So, that's why he's out, to tell the truth. Because I'm just tired of putting up with it all."
I was relieved, to say the least. She was halfway on my side of the fence, seeing him for the signs. Her testimony only cast more suspicion on him. "And do you ever wonder where he's really going, every time he leaves? I have a theory on that; I can only tell you now that he's gone, because I know he throws a royal air-quake for every little-"
Then, before I could enjoy the family moment we were having, my grandfather returned. Unexpectedly, like he'd never left, he was roaming the grounds again. He slammed the door to the backyard, hard, holding leftovers that his now ex-wife had made for herself. My sweat turned cold, and I stiffened my back. Before my grandmother could check in on me with a glance, I was already picking berries again, out of sight... in a shadow cast by the house. She narrowed her eyes, wondering practically out loud if I'd been caught in a lie (which I wasn't), or if I was actually just scared (which I was). Then she turned to him, for a routine assessment. Today, it looked like, he wasn't passing the mark. He was scruffier than normal, and his hair had grown long, poking out in all directions from head and beard alike.
He muffled through that stolen meal, "So when do they get the house?"
The Rater was a bit shocked, but played nice. "Next week. What are you doing here? And... why are you eating my food? Aren't you supposed to be in Arabia?"
He shrugged. "Job got canceled, again. Food's great, by the way! You're welcome for buying you those ingredients."
"I bought those myself," she replied. "Can you wait inside, Chief? I'll be right there." She was trying to say something to me, out of his ear-shot.
He shook his head. "Nah, it's nice out. We can talk."
While their predictable argumentativity started to rear its angry head, I noticed something was off about the yard... there was a distinct lack of dog shit. I looked over at Thunder, who was laying on his side, breathing quickly. As I approached him, he didn't react. Something horrible had happened to him... he had bubons all over his legs, which he'd bite-plucked all his hairs from. They were red, black, and rotted with stench. Flies were swarming him, all over. I tried to pick him up, but he couldn't walk. His spine had given out.
The Barreler noticed this, and stomped right over. "WHAT did you do to MY dog?!"
"Thunder's sick," I replied. "I didn't do anything, I just found him like this."
"Yeah, right," he huffed. "I leave for a month, and I come back, and my dog is dying. This is what I get for leaving my wife in charge."
"Ex-wife," she grumbled, catching up. Her hips were giving out, and she couldn't walk as fast. "And he's all our dog, not just yours."
The Collector found us there as well, wondering what was the problem – her children were sound asleep for their midday nap. All four of us stood over Thunder, whose breath was quickening, but not his legs. We knew what this meant... his time had come.

Thunder was an old mutt, but still of fine white fur and strong frame. His ears flopped, his breath was terrible, and his gaze was understanding. He was adorable, and elderly, and wise. He got along great with children; he loved adults just as much; and he was an absolute joy to his relative peers, the grandparents. He was found after he'd wandered the neighborhood for four months, and was caught in the barn eating leftover meatloaf that my grandmother had dropped, while she'd gone to get a broom to clean it up. From then on, he guarded the yards with fervor, never daring to run away without coming back. He loved walks, he loved running, and he never let his age stop him from doing either until the very last day of his life.
My grandfather took him to get buried by the local veterinarian. Fogborn may have been a cesspool, but people loved their animals... some days, the vet was more popular than the doctor. The Barreler was upset, and felt for the first time in a long while, a lack of control. It was hard to see him that way, despite everything. He came back to tell us the sore news, and tried to schmooze his way back into his ex-wife's heart before he left again. We buried Thunder at the furthest part of the yard, hoping his spirit would guard the place for its new owners.