Hank accepted isolation. It was how he defined himself as he watched the water, darkened from his greasy hands, circle the drain in the utility sink. Relics of a once-promising life echoed in his solitude. The sizeable derelict mansion surrounded Hank, acting as his own Grey Gardens, complete with his unstable mother insisting on constant chatter of her husband, the once-great Henry Carroll Jr., long since dead and of no use. And the shared name, perhaps a more considerable burden, that he tried to obscure with the use of Hank. He didn't mind being alone. He preferred it to the eyes of his neighbors, the mix of pity for the turns of life and fear that his family's misfortune could spread like wildfire and burn down their precious world.

The Carrolls were not well equipped for their sudden fall. Having had every luxury money and power afforded, his mother, Clara, descended into a permanent state of delusion, leaving her sole child to bear the burden. Hank was a teen at the time of his father's untimely death. At first, the family accountant was upbeat, perhaps too kind to set them straight on their prospects with no additional means of income.

"Minor tweaks," were the words he used with a toothy grin that smacked with both pity and revile.

He focused on the positives. The house was paid for, so the burden was in upkeep and taxes, and there was the sizable college fund and trust. But these consolations fed Clara's fantasies. She continued to spend on clothes, parties, and other lavish trends to keep her ingratiated with her former life. In the few short months that passed between the incident and Hank's high school graduation, all was gone except his college fund, which would not be enough to keep the Carroll mansion and afford him an education.

The Carrolls began to reduce costs. Hank quietly dismissed Evie and Callum Baker, their housekeeper and groundskeeper, respectively. Their circle, having already shrunk from the scandal, grew smaller, but losing the Bakers challenged Hank the most. Evie was more than just a housekeeper. She mothered him, quick with a hug after adolescent crushes collapsed on him or knowing when he needed a snack boost during his studies. The thought of additional studies eroded. His once obvious path of following his father's and grandfather's footsteps into law evaporated.

While his mother was 'of society,' the town admired no one more than his father. Henry Sr. left big footsteps as an objective lawyer, not afraid to fight for justice, but Henry Jr. gained even more admiration with his overriding empathy. Perhaps it was that compassion that led to his marriage to Clara. Henry Jr. had his pick of ladies in town; the odd choice sparked many whispers, which then spread viciously like a wildfire. Clara was not deceptive or unkind but carried herself with a self-absorption level often misconstrued for callousness. Her delicate position was apparent to Hank; perhaps his father also saw it bubbling under the surface and always hoped to provide a secure veil to prevent it from boiling over. Or maybe there was a kinship in their frailty.

The one gift that Henry Jr. gave his son was an appreciation and understanding of vintage cars. The two spent Sunday afternoons repairing various classic cars, but his father was not a collector. Once complete, he would trade them for a new project, often not accepting any payment at all.

"Price is what someone will pay," he would say. "If anything, I'm overcharging them; I get to spend another Sunday with my favorite person."

The Sunday afternoon chats with his father haunted Hank the most, even twenty years later. The conversations would often turn to understand all sides of a situation. Then, within the cracks, you would find the truth. Hank's solitude allowed him to repair his former peers' vintage car collections with just the lingering reminders of conversations past. No people meant no angles to analyze.

There was one exception in Hank's isolation, and that was Peter Dillard. Peter was Henry Jr.'s oldest friend from primary school straight through law school. Their lives were mirror images. The delivery of Isabella Dillard even matched Hank's birth. Hank had scarce memories of the smiley girl with blond ringlets circling her head. He wasn't even sure if they were memories or just images formed from many retellings of stories.

When Hank was five, the two families spent a blistering Saturday at the beach. Bella wandered off to find seashells to accent the castle the two families had built in the damp wake of the sea. Hank recalled the sun and the sticky sand on his legs. But he didn't remember the screams or the limp body he was sure haunted Peter. Hank hoped the lingering memories of her smile and ringlets were not from her last moments, but he was so young at the time that he couldn't be sure.

When his father passed, Peter and Hank shared a second tragedy. The Dillards had been among the few who still treated the Carrolls as equals; at least Peter had. His wife, Elise, had tolerated their presence but in controlled company.

And now Hank was trying to wash as much of the grease from his hands and nail beds to be at least semi-presentable, not that he had much luck. Nevertheless, the hiss of the faucet and warmth of the water soothed his mind for a moment. He grew accustomed to his solitude and dreaded the Dillard's summons. But as his father's best friend and lingering family champion, Hank felt he owed an acceptance when extended an offer to the occasional party. At least he could count on it being small and inclusive of those who still carried fond memories of his father.

No one from any society's segments who smiled at his father's demise would be in attendance. While Henry Jr. fought for truth, every fight had two sides, and often the losing side had been Carroll's peers. His father ruffled more than a few feathers by those he represented. He frequently received scorn from peers looking to build a political career and who resented failed legal battles threatening to mar their paths.

Hank scrubbed until the water ran cold and then headed inside to fix dinner and tea for his mother. He brought the small meal of half a sandwich and salad to her in the sitting room and set it on the side table. As he ate the other half of the sandwich in the kitchen, he thought of eating both halves, knowing his mother wouldn't eat more than a few pecks of the salad.

"Such a handsome boy," his mother cooed as he took a seat in the chair across from her. "Send the Dillards, my love. I wish I could go, but of course, these terrible knees."

There was nothing wrong with her knees; multiple doctors checked countless times. Hank just smiled, knowing it was her way of hiding. There were still hints of beauty in her face, but her skin was now sallow from lack of sun, and she kept herself hidden beneath a scarf since they could no longer afford trips to the salon. Her hands and neck still dripped with the last of her jewelry, contrasting with the worn silk robe she nearly always wore.

"Such a hard thing," she whispered to herself, "to lose a child. I don't think I could bear it."

Hank was confident that had he died in place of his father, she would have fared much better, but he knew it was better to keep quiet considering the situation's angles.

"You should hurry off and change. If they serve tarts for dessert, remember to bring one home to me. I've always loved Harriet's tarts."

Harriet, the once cook for the Dillards, had passed away almost ten years ago, but again the perspectives did not yield to needing correction.

Hank slipped away with a silent nod and headed up the creaking staircase to the only room that had ever been his. He showered and once again worked more of the grease from around his nail beds. He knew it was no use, but he fixated; the oil was the current focus. Again, he worked until the water ran cold. The shower fogged the bathroom mirror, but he shaved anyway. His being one of the most frequent faces he saw, he was quite accustomed to it. His limited wardrobe allowed for quick dressing. He gave a passing goodnight to mother, noting that she touched none of her dinner, before he stepped out the front door into the brisk September air.

Across town, a stranger intent on shattering Hank's carefully protected solitude stepped out from beneath the dingy sign of Hank's garage and into the same chilling fall breeze.