The back alley wanking finally ceased. When this year's Yule arrived, they'd tried to skirt their limits by hiring a grown actor to play a child, and have him ravaged by his grandfather as a 'present' for the holidays. He was wrapped in bows, and nothing else, but the temperature was too cold – when the other actor tried to stick in, they got stuck together. It wasn't pretty when they came apart, and the scream that old man made was heard village-wide. With their main actors too disturbed to put on the show, they finally halted their porn-theatre, and crawled back under their rocks. Apparently, they didn't get the memo: winter is coming.

The horrible nightmares had stopped, as well... save for one where The Rationeer had cornered me in a senselessly-constructed mansion of ceilings on walls and stairs on ceilings, and twisted my guts with her bare hand... a malevolent smile on her face. When I told her that, she'd cried and told me she needed counseling for what she'd just heard; that I was hurting her again. It'd become plain to me that all I really ever wanted since I arrived was to escape, and that their hallways were far too narrow for a second person to sidle through – which is exactly why they always waited until I was there, known by my steps on those thundering, flimsy floors, to accost me. Even the masons couldn't fix bad construction of the house's foundational bearings. Worse, I was no longer able to live downstairs, where I could escape them – I was forced to dwell in the room across from theirs, across a single thin wall from them and their arguments. If not for my dedication to silence, I'd have been caught twice as many times, rubbing shoulders with monsters and hating myself for letting it occur. I was lucky they seemed to find each other, in bed, as immobile as two stones of a pair. But that was a small, meaningless grace; I just wanted to go home. When The Oaf left (supposedly for good), and the house had finally been sold to a buyer (whom I didn't have the chance to meet), it was a cathartic blessing disguised as a pleasant wave.

The Rationeer saw that I was getting older, and began to worry. On one hand, her and I had formed an understanding: since the divorce, and during all the strife, she'd learned that I was actually invaluable to keep around; 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 she had right at home. 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 that herself. But that work 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, for years.
"Reaper," she said, looking nervous. "I don't want you to think differently 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. "When I asked you to call me 'grandmother', I wasn't exaggerating. The truth is, my girls had a brother – we called him The Illustrator. He was your father."
My guts shook, and my heart started to beat. "You knew my father?"
She looked hesitant to keep talking. "I raised him."
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, grandma?" Calling her that rolled off easily, because I'd already been saying it in honorifics. It felt better, though, to say for blood (no offense intended to those of purely honorific trees).
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 hung out with the family. And he stole things, 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, "Was his father The Oa- I mean, Chief?"
She shook her head. "No, his father was the same as his sisters'. He used to steal farm equipment and sell it, but he was taken in by road patrol. He gave every name he knew, and they made him an officer. But he was violent at home, and selfish. Incredibly vain, actually. I'd even say a narcissist."
I nodded. "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. He had my second husband for a step-father, but they didn't get along very easily. It was only toys and drawings that made them friendly, much like with you and The Chief. But 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 exactly 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. And you don't lie, or steal things. Or blow up at everything, and avoid everyone. 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, "Do you know who my mother was?"
She shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned, it should have been me. But you were left here by a dirty gypsy wench, and 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. Was The Chief around?"
She shook her head. "No, I hadn't met him yet. Your father had some similar 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, once my first husband left. 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 weird. Man, that kid was so weird!" She laughed again. "He was always doing the weirdest things, like crawling under blankets and pretending to be invisible. Or 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, grandma. 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. 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 a bit of a temper yourself, y'know. Especially when you fought with The Chief. 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. And you both had the same hobbies, which I never shared with him – he always trash-talked everything I liked to do. Not that I thought the two of you should be best buds or anything, but... 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 he harassed me, he bullied me, and he made me feel unsafe," I told her. I was willing to be delicate about the attempted sexual abuse, and his horrible stare towards all the parts of me that felt the least protected on any given day. For the sake of peace, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt which he'd already cast into mud a long time ago. "He was also a creep to me, in exactly the way you'd expect from an older man who can't contain himself – which I understand, but can't possibly defend."
She looked uneasy. "Well... I'm not sure about that. But my mother didn't believe me, either, and I got it worse than you did. I can tell you... he hated kissing me. And he never wanted to, y'know, perform 'the act', except his own grand ones. Acted like a rambunctious child, posing for a painting. All those other times, in the house, I think those were just for show. 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."
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, The Oaf 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 The Rater 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, or if I was actually just scared. 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." Now THAT was passive-aggressive.
"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 Oaf noticed this, and stomped right over. "WHAT did you do to MY dog?!"
I rolled my eyes. "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.
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, of 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 garage eating leftover meatloaf that The Rater had dropped, and went to get a rag to clean 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.

The Oaf took him to get euthanized by the local veterinarian. Europe may have been a cesspool, but people loved their animals... some days, the vet was more popular than the doctor. The Oaf 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 The Rater'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.