“Who says I’m avoiding something?”
“Well, you’re standing outside in the middle of winter. And you’re not smoking a cigarette or waiting for a bus.”
Mason laughed. “I’m just taking a moment for myself.”
Reagan hummed. “Me, too.”
“Hey, I’m, um . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t expecting him to say that. “Thanks. I guess that’s what I’m out here avoiding.”
“Your loss?”
“Pretty much. I thought I was doing my grandpa good by making sure he could still have a Christmas, but I think I’m just reminding him that it’s Christmas and that she isn’t here.”
Mason didn’t reply to that. Why should he? He was a complete stranger.
“Sorry,” Reagan said. “I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to people.”
He laughed again. “Don’t worry about it. This is the first in-person conversation I’ve had with anyone other than my parents—and your grandpa and the UPS guy—in months.”
“Yeah? You pretty locked down?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I thought this was no-mask country,” she said.
“Maybe it is, I wouldn’t know. I don’t leave the house.”
Reagan smiled. He couldn’t see it. “You live there with your parents?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I mean—I guess I don’t know how to answer that question.”
“O-kay . . .”
“Technically, I live in DC. I have an apartment there. But I was going a little crazy after two months of isolation, and I was worried about my mom and dad . . .”
“So you came back to Arnold?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“You’d rather quarantine in Arnold, Nebraska, than in Washington, DC?”
“I mean . . . yeah.” He was smiling. She could sort of hear it. She could imagine his chin disappearing. “Honestly,” he said. “It’s been nice. I took my brother’s old room—it’s huge. It’s half the size of my apartment in DC. And I can be outside here without wearing a mask. You know, usually. And my parents are much less irritating than I remembered from high school. I watch M*A*S*H every night with my mom. It’s kinda great.”
“So why are you out here getting some air?”
Mason was quiet for a second. Then he said, “I don’t remember you being this chatty back in school.”
“Well, I don’t remember you at all.”
He laughed.
“Seriously,” she said, “were we in school together?” She wasn’t trying to be mean. （She didn’t have to try. It came naturally.） She just recognized him as her grandparents’ neighbor.
“There’s only one high school, Reagan.”
“Yeah, but you’re a lot younger than me, right?”
“I’m two years younger than you.”
“Really? I thought you won the state wrestling thing when I was in college.”
“That was my brother, Brook.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. We were in band together—you and me.”
“I think I blocked that out. I hated band.”
“I could tell,” he said. “You were terrible.”
“I didn’t even play half the time. I just moved the clarinet around.” She reached in her pocket for cigarettes. She didn’t have any. She hadn’t had any for years. “Sorry I don’t really remember you.”
“That’s all right. We were all trying to stay in your blind spot anyhow.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you were mean as shit.”
“I was not.”
“Yes, you were—you called my friend ‘Mr. Toad.’”
Reagan cackled. “You were friends with Mr. Toad?”
“I was.”
“How’s he doing?”
“All right. He manages the nursing home.”
“Oof. What a time to work at a nursing home.”
“Yeah . . .”
They were quiet again.
“Your grandpa is careful,” Mason said, like he could hear her worrying. “Your parents come by, and they talk through the storm door.”
“That’s good,” Reagan said.
“I should have salted his driveway.”
“What?”
“I didn’t realize it had iced up, or that he was having company.”