There is a cowboy hat in the oven. There is a black ribbon around the base of the hat. There are hot pink skulls on the ribbon. “Nash!” I holler. It’s been months, and I don’t know how many hats. At first, he was subtle about it, but for a full two months now, every single person in Hawthorne House has cued into his game. The man is, in a word, persistent. “Behind you, Lib.”
