When Harry’s parents died—first Dad, then Mom, their condo was passed to Harry and his sister. It was sold and Harry used his share to buy a rundown house on the outskirts of Halifax.

Harry was a meat cutter. He enjoyed beer and happily smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. He also enjoyed television. His favorite show was M*A*S*H.

Harry’s sister phoned one evening from Los Angeles. He had just gotten back from downtown, lurking on a street known for prostitutes—a 20-minute drive from his little house. It was dark when Harry received the phone call from his sister, but when he was driving downtown the sun had not yet gone down and a young woman’s long shadow had reached out across the sidewalk as she stood by a telephone pole.

She had smiled when he pulled up. Perhaps 20, perhaps 19, he thought. Her eyes were innocent, blue, and her hair was bleached blond and tied in ponytails. Her boots rose high to her knees, sleek black plastic.

Harry enjoyed these downtown trips. For several weeks he had had spotted her and decided tonight he’d just speak to her—what harm could it do? He had made sure no one had seen him as he pulled his car to the curb. He had asked her name. Britney. Just like Britney Spears, she said, her ponytails bouncing while she flicked pink gum with a pointy tongue. She said, for fifty, you get a hand job. I have a room down the street. For a hundred, do it bareback.

Now Harry was back in his house and talking with his sister from Los Angeles. She told him Edward was coming to Halifax to attend university. It had been fifteen years since Harry traveled to California to visit his sister and two-year-old nephew Edward. But he vividly remembered the experience. Edward had bawled constantly. He had felt like taking the child and slapping him silly, especially after Harry’s sister had insisted he hold the freckled boy with the red, curly hair and he’d coughed up his morning milk all down Harry’s new shirt.

“Can he stay with you, Harry?” his sister asked. Harry lit a cigarette. “It’s such a change compared with Los Angeles. As a rule Edward’s pretty happy. He can be moody sometimes, but isn’t that the case with all boys his age? Bill and I just let him be when that happens.”

Harry felt his pulse increase along with an immediate gnawing in his gut. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of sharing his house with anyone, especially an irritable nephew, because in fact Harry himself was grumpy. “Well, Sophie,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. I’m a bit stunned. I suppose Eddy could stay here—well, for a little bit until he found something else. Surely Eddy would rather live with someone his age.” It was not a question. It was a statement.

Sophie laughed. “He’s seventeen now and he doesn’t like to be called Eddy. Just remember that Harry. You just called in Eddy twice in two sentences. I’ll scan a photo of him and email it to you. His hair isn’t curly anymore.”

Harry heard what seemed to be slurping pop through a straw. He knew Sophie was a Pepsi addict. She continued, “Think it over, will you? We’d be relieved if you’d say yes. You know how mothers worry. What, being in a strange city and all. Of course we’d cover his living expenses. I don’t know how much meat cutters make. Maybe the money will come in handy. I always thought that you got shortchanged on your inheritance when Mom and Dad passed away. But you were the one who wanted that house. I think it would be good for you to have someone else living there with you. And I know it would be good for Edward.”

Harry cringed and fell silent. He looked at his curtains and overflowing ashtrays. Then he looked at the newspapers and magazines that lie scattered on the living room floor. He looked at his bookcase.

He thought about the switchblade behind the thick Stephen King book. The knife had previously slashed three prostitutes. After one particular killing he had read the tagline on the front page of the newspaper: “Eyes removed from prostitute’s face—Halifax in shock.” None had seen the knife that he had held next to their temples while he thrust his hips between their legs. He had pressed the lever on the grip and the blade had sprung out simultaneously to his own ejaculation. He had studied their eyes upon the knife’s entry. It’s okay, be quiet now my little one, he had whispered each time.

His mind returned to the business at hand—Edward. He took one more glance at the bookcase. I can’t imagine living with someone, he thought.

“Are you still there, Harry?” Sophie asked. She laughed again and said, “Well think about it will you? His father and I are very proud of him. I’ll email that scanned photo to you tonight. Edward should be in Halifax in less than a month.”

“I just don’t know, Sophie. I’m used to living alone. He’d be bored silly living with me.” Harry thought of something else to say while considering the thought of sharing the kitchen and bathroom. “I don’t like music; I like things quiet.”

Sophie went quiet. Harry lit another cigarette. Then he heard his sister take a hard slurp of pop. “Harry,” she said. Her words were tight. “If you don’t want your own flesh and blood to stay with you, my son I might add, then we’ll just rent him an apartment in Halifax.”

“Well, maybe it’s best Sophie. Thank you for understanding that,” Harry responded.

“Understanding?” she snapped. He heard snorting now and Harry figured Sophie’s husband Bill was listening to the conversation. Eddy was probably listening too. And damn it—if he wanted to call Edward “Eddy” he damn well would.

A long silence developed and then the conversation turned awkward. He never did receive the email with Edward’s photograph. Red-headed asshole, he thought to himself. Eddy’s a carbon copy of his mother.

Two months later Harry couldn’t be absolutely certain if he had ended the conversation without saying goodbye. All he knew was it was great to smoke and drink beer and watch television—alone.

He would kill Britney tonight.