Page 46 of No More Billionaires

He took a candle and climbed the ladder to the loft, holding up the flickering light. “All clear up here. The mattress is bare, though. Ruby said there were some sheets in the bathroom closet.”

Yes—a bathroom!

I picked up another candle and walked into the dark space, finding a rather small clawfoot bathtub, a wall sink, and a surprisingly not-disgusting toilet.

There was no closet, but there was a sort of cut-out in the bathroom wall with shelves holding a bottle of purple shampoo, a roll of bathroom tissue, a stack of thin-looking white towels, pillow cases, and a fitted bed sheet.

Asheet. Forabed.

I grabbed the linens and rushed back out of the bathroom to the kitchen area. Larson was poking around inside a cabinet. He turned around, holding a can.

“Ever had Spam before? I didn’t know if they actually sold this stuff or if it was an urban legend. What’s the matter? Not a Spam fan?”

I held up the sheet in front of me. “There’sonebed,” I said as if announcing some shocking scientific discovery.

“I wouldn’t even call it a bed, actually. It’s just a mattress on the floor, but once the sheet is on, I’ll wager we can sleep on it just fine. Oh—”

My expression must have finally registered with him. He lifted a hand.

“You can take the bed. I’ll just sleep on the—” He looked around, finding no couch. “That chair will work for me.”

“No. I’ll sleep in the chair—you take the bed—you need more room than I do.”

I walked over to the recliner and patted it. A tiny puff of dust rose in the fire-lit air.

“Oh boy. What I wouldn’t give for a vacuum right now.”

Larson stepped toward me. “Why don’t you go put the sheet on—and check the wooden chest up there—maybe there’s a blanket or something inside. I’ll just clean off the chair—I can sleep here fine.”

He worked the handle on the side of the recliner, cranking it back and forth with no results.

“Guess it doesn’t recline anymore,” he said. “Maybe if I push it.”

He pressed on the back of the chair.

It collapsed more than reclined and released an impressive cloud of dust in the process.

Larson began coughing and gasping for clean air. He walked over to the front door and stepped out onto the porch. I hurried after him.

“Are you all right?”

He continued to cough, holding onto the porch railing and leaning over. His voice was rough when he answered.

“I’ll be fine. I have mild asthma.”

“This doesn’t look mild.”

He drew in a labored breath. “Well, I just inhaled half the soil in Tennessee. A few minutes out here and I’ll be okay. Go back inside. You’re freezing. I’ll be right there.”

Taking my candle, I went in, climbed up to the loft and made the bed. Then I took Larson’s suggestion and checked the chest in the back corner.

It contained several folded pairs of camouflage pants, a stack of old Playboys (for Man Time, I assumed,) two feather pillows, and a quilt decorated with an embroidered pattern of deer and trees. I lifted the quilt and sniffed it—fresh-smelling cedar, not dust, thank goodness.

I spread it over the bed, put cases on the pillows, and climbed back down the ladder to check on Larson.

He opened the door as I was stepping off the last rung.

“Better?” I asked.

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