As the doorbell sounds inside the cottage, Joshua steps back, and we wait, looking at the door. The six glazed panels on the top half of it gleam dully in the late afternoon light, allowing no view of what's inside. Like the rest of what I saw of the two-story house, the door shows signs of wear, if not neglect. There are stains and scratches that haven't been painted over for years. Some of the original paint has chipped off, uncovering the yellow oak underneath.

"What kind of relatives are they?" I whisper to Joshua.

When he had said we would meet his family, I had assumed he'd meant his parents; yet the name on the mailbox at the beginning of the lane leading to the house was Harris, not Hill.

Before he can answer, the sound of shuffling feet comes from behind the door, along with a muffled metallic sound accompanying each step. I glance at Joshua questioningly, but he keeps his eyes on the door.

It opens slowly, and an elderly man peers at us through the mosquito net. His long wrinkled face and loose jowls make him resemble a hound dog. Leaning on a walking frame, he looks first at me, then at Joshua. For a long moment they watch each other in silence, the only sound being the chuckling of chickens behind us in the front yard.

"Joshua," the man says slowly.

The left side of his face droops a little as he speaks, and the speech itself is not very clear, as if he had something in his mouth. Looks like the results of a stroke to me, and a relatively recent one.

"Hi, Dad," Joshua says. "May we come in?"

There's a pause and then the man reaches out and pushes the mosquito net door open.

He steps back, dragging the walker behind him. He seems unsteady for a moment, and I reach out to help, but he shakes his head, and I stop. He steadies himself, clutching the walker hard with his bony fingers.

Once the entrance is clear, Joshua walks confidently past the man. I step in after him and close the door, uncomfortable with entering the house without having been properly introduced to the owner. Joshua, already continuing down the corridor, apparently has no intention of fixing that.

"Mr. Harris?" I say, outstretching my hand, then withdraw it quickly as I realize that a handshake could inconvenience someone who can barely stand. "I'm Ethan, Joshua's friend."

The man turns away and shuffles along the corridor, leaning on his walker. I'm left with no other choice but to follow him, adjusting my speed to his crawling pace. Along the corridor, pictures and rifles hang on the wooden walls. We pass an entryway to a large, dark living room, with all its blinds down, and then continue. The corridor leads into a small, sunlit kitchen where Joshua is already sitting by the table, munching on a pack of chips. My stomach gurgles and my mouth waters at the smell of food and at the sight of the half empty glass on the table in front of him.

"Help yourself," he says through his mouthful. "You can drink from the tap, the water is clean here."

The man with the walker stops in the middle of the kitchen and observes Joshua who continues eating without giving him a second glance. I stand in the doorway completely confused by this family dynamics.

"I'm sorry we burst in on you like this," I try, and the man's slow gaze shifts to me. "We have been in the area and Joshua said we should visit you. If that's an inconvenience, we'll leave."

The man remains silent. Had he not said Joshua's name before, I would've by now assumed he was numb. Now, I can only assume he's pissed off by our intrusion. He's not offering me to sit down, so I remain in the doorway, feeling lost and a little envious of Joshua who continues eating and drinking.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Joshua gets up, leaving the chips on the table, and turns an empty chair towards me. "Come, sit here." He moves to the fridge and opens it. "Daddy, you're quite stacked up—can we take some pork? And this? Beer would be great, too."

He steps away from the fridge, his arms full of items, and I jump over to help before he drops anything. He closes the fridge door with his foot and then we settle all the things on the table while the man keeps staring at us impassively.

"You're being rude to him," I whisper to Joshua. "You didn't ask for his permission."

"He doesn't mind. We're family." Joshua turns around and beams at the man. "How are you? I heard your walking got better. Is Martha still coming to help you?"

"Yes," the man says slowly. "Still does."

Joshua nods, taking his place by the table again. "Probably wants this place once you're dead. Don't forget to mention her in your will."

Relieved that at least now the man is included in the conversation, I pick a slice of bread from the paper wrap and put some ham on it before sinking my teeth into it. I chew and wash it down with the beer that Joshua has graciously opened for me. Its coolness tastes exceptional, and the bread and the ham seem to be the best I have ever tasted.

The man watches us for a while before turning around and shuffling out of the kitchen. I can hear the sounds of his slow retreat down the corridor. The riffles hanging on the walls come to mind—I hope he's not heading to get one of them, annoyed by our unceremonious behavior. Although I can't see how he could let go of his walker long enough to aim a gun.

"What's the deal?" I whisper. "You barely talk to him. Family or not, you can just burst into his house and start eating his food."

Joshua waves at me dismissively. "He doesn't care about manners."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't."

I pause, watching him, trying to find any similarity to the man with the walker, but I see none. I try to imagine him forty years from now, with jowls and wrinkles, but his smooth, young face defies such attempts.

"I gather you took after your Mom," I say, giving up. "You don't look like him at all. Although perhaps he looked different before the stroke? When did that happen, by the way?"

"About half a year ago. I met Martha shopping in town, and she told me all about it. The poor guy spent weeks in bed, and then he quit his physiotherapy, so he hasn't improved as much as he could have."

"Did you visit him?"

"I'm visiting him now, am I not?" He spreads his hands before reaching out for more ham as I gaze at him in disbelief.

"You really are a shitty son, you know that?"

"Well, he wasn't too great a father, either." He looks at me, unperturbed. "Also, he's not my real father. Just a man Mom lived with for a while before she pulled off her own disappearing act."

"Did she leave you with her boyfriend?" I frown. "That's terrible."

"Yeah." He waves at me dismissively. "It's old news, though."

"So, you lived with him since then? If he was still willing to take care of you after your mother left, you owe him even more."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, just shut up, will you?" He takes a sip from his glass before leaning forward, putting his elbows on the faded blue checked tablecloth. "Let's talk about what we're going to do. I'm beginning to like this whole disappearance idea. Maybe my mom's genes are kicking in. Should we go to a quiet, remote place, or a big city? It could be easy to get lost in a big one. On the other hand, they have surveillance cameras everywhere."

It's clear he's trying to change the subject, but we do need to discuss those things.

"We'll probably have a better chance to get a new IDs in the big city," I say. "Not that I'm an expert."

"Shouldn't be too hard." He shrugs. "Illegal immigrants get them to secure jobs. Fugitives, terrorists, even teenagers who want to pass for legal drinkers. One of the ways is to search graveyards for people who were born around the time you were, take the names and the date of birth to the nearest county clerk's office and voila—they issue you a duplicate birth certificate once you say you've lost the original or something. Then use the birth certificate to apply for a Social Security number. Then, apply for a driver's license, and so on."

I stare at him, surprised. "How do you know these things?"

"I hang out with all kinds of people." He winks at me. "If I knew I would need the knowledge, I would've asked more questions. Hell, I would've withdrawn all my money from the bank long ago. You see now why I preferred to keep cash close by? If not for the fire, we could have had my cash now."

"Do you think your father could lend us some starting capital?" I say, although I doubt the man will be willing to do anything of the kind after the way Joshua has been treating him.

"Sure will." Joshua smiles at me before sinking his teeth into a slice of bread. "Trust me. I know the man."