Chapter 1

 “Strong Men, Hard Times”

Eustace Mercer grunted as he wrenched the bathtub spout. The muscles in his arms twitched as he strained against the set of pliers grasped onto the metal neck. Underneath, a rag was wrapped around to prevent the pliers from slipping or scratching the metal. After another jerk, the spout gave and inched a fraction. Now that it was loose, Eustace let out a breath as he continued unscrewing the fixture.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Brayden said.

Eustace straddled the side of the old, cream-colored bathtub—one leg inside, the other on the floor. He glanced over his shoulder as he worked to eye his grandson. The boy, awkward even for his fifteen years, leaned against the wall with one hand behind his back, grasping the other, head tilted as he watched. His face was still rounded with baby fat, his sandy-colored hair was longer than boys should wear, and it feathered out around his ears. He’d hit a lucky growth spurt, but the extra height hadn’t done much for his soft midsection.

“I told you, we’re replacing the spout,” Eustace said. The spout finally came free, and he set down his pliers to examine inside, pulling the lever up and down at the end.

“Why don’t you just call a plumber?”

Eustace felt a scowl rise to the surface. "Why? So, I can pay two hundred dollars for twenty minutes of work? Not happening. Every man should know how his house runs. You’d best learn that, boy.”

Brayden rolled his eyes and then sighed through his nose. “I’ll just hire a plumber when I have my own place, I guess.”

Eustace grumbled as he continued to eye the old spout. The gate was warped from use and old age. He’d need to replace it. It was a good thing he’d picked up a spare before the hardware store closed for the weekend. The box stores would always be an option, but he refused. The local shop—Jim’s Hardware—would always get his business. “That’s probably why your mother sent you over to help me around the house. Your mind isn’t sharp enough to have such soft hands. You have a lot of learning to do.”

“No, my hands are fine. I just needed money, so they offered to pay me to help.”

“You’re getting paid?” Eustace asked. When he was Brayden’s age, you didn’t get paid for helping around the house. You were expected to earn your keep, and if you wanted something extra, you went and got a real job to work after school and after chores. No wonder kids are so soft these days. “Well, time to earn that money then. You got that new spout?”

Brayden looked around the bathroom for a moment before spotting the spout inside the sink and fumbled with the package. “Trade me,” Eustace said, handing the old spout to his grandson. "Come over here; I have a job for you to do."

A sigh escaped Brayden’s lips as he set the grimy, crusted spout into the sink and then shuffled toward the bathtub. "You already know; I don't know how to fix anything."

“Everyone starts somewhere. Now, here is something that is more your speed.” Eustace reached into the base of the bathtub, where the rest of his tools were lying, grabbed a toothbrush, and handed it to his grandson.

“A—a toothbrush? What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You see this yellow gunk on the end here?” Eustace asked, rubbing a finger over the grime at the end of the copper pipe. “It’s old plumber’s tape. It needs to be removed. That toothbrush will help you get it up.”

Eustace stood, letting Brayden take his place at the tub. The boy looked back and forth between the toothbrush and the copper pipe like Eustace had just handed him a live grenade. “You’re kidding.”

Eustace crossed his arms. “Nope. And if you whine about it, I’ll give you an even worse job.”

Brayden muttered something under his breath but crouched down, scrubbing at the gunk like it had personally offended him.

“There ya go,” Eustace said. “See? Easy enough that even you can handle that.” Satisfied, he turned to leave the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” Brayden asked, still hunched over the copper pipe.

“I’m going to get another beer.”

“You know that stuff’s bad for you, right?”

“Boy, I’m eighty years old… Everything’s bad for me.”

Eustace crossed the threshold into the hallway. He could hear his grandson lightly scraping the brush. At that slow pace, he’d be at it all afternoon. But Eustace didn't mind; it kept the boy occupied and he wasn’t really great with kids nowadays. He couldn’t relate to their obsession with gadgets, irritating slang, and outright laziness.

The hallway was mostly dark, lit only by the bathroom light and a sliver of sunlight from the living room windows. Lining the walls were pictures of the family—his son, Joel, Joel’s wife, and Brayden—along with photos of himself and his wife, Grace. He paused, stopping to look at a photo of their fiftieth anniversary. Grace was all smiles, clinging to his side, her glasses nearly pushed off her face from hugging him so tightly. She wore a satin silver dress with her pearls to match. Even in their old age, she was truly beautiful—both inside and out.

It had been three years since she’d passed of ovarian cancer, and Eustace had never recovered. Ever since his wife’s passing, Eustace felt like he was drifting. Life lost its luster. Nothing really mattered anymore. Grace had been his everything. There had been times when he looked forward to days when she volunteered at the church, and he could sit alone in peace—days where he didn't have to hear about his drinking or blaring the news too loudly. But now? That’s all his life was. Silence.

How could a woman so lovely, so kind, and so dedicated to the church die in such a miserable way? The chemo, the wasting away… She deserved better than that. He intended to have a chat with God when it was his turn to face the reaper. That is—if he even made it up there.

Grace had been the color of Eustace's black-and-white world. Now, everything was dull. And if he was being honest, he wasn't even sure why he agreed to have Brayden over. He didn't know what to do with the kid. He barely knew him at all.

Eustace felt a grumble escape his lips as he peeled his eyes away from the photo. He continued down the hall and barely crossed into the kitchen when he heard a knock at his door.

Another growl rumbled in his throat.

It was probably one of those Mormon boys in their clean white shirts and black ties. He’d seen the pair walking up and down the neighborhood for weeks now. Grace would've probably invited them in for tea. Eustace, on the other hand, would invite them to kindly step off his property, or he’d really test their faith. He’d been lucky enough to have avoided them so far, but it seems his luck must’ve run out.

Another knock—no, not a knock. A fist pounding against the door.

“I’m coming!” Eustace called. He didn’t know what those boys were up to, but if they kept banging on his door like that, they were in for a rough day.

As Eustace approached the door, another soft scrape came from the other side. Then—a smack. Flesh against wood.

“Hold your damn horses!”

Eustace grasped his doorknob.

As soon as he twisted the knob, the door slammed inward with enough force to rattle the pictures on the wall. Eustace staggered back, his boots nearly tripping over the rug as the stranger lurched inside.

Eustace’s eyes grew wide with shock when he took in the intruder's appearance.

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