.

that small area to dig a pool I’d never guess.

      “Are you finding everything you need up there?” Rusty’s mom called up the stairs.

      “Yeah, Mom, we’re fine.” Then he turned to me and asked, “Ever played pool?”

      “I haven’t played in years. I used to play a lot when I was living at home. The ranch hands have an old pool table in the bunkhouse and we’d play in the off season.”

      “Your dad let you go in the bunkhouse?”

      “The guys were considerate. They kept things clean when Jesse and I were around. I learned how to play poker there, too. I lost a lot of pocket change to them, especially Old Frank and Steve. They’d never take more than pocket change from me.”

      “You want to try it?”

      “Nine Ball or Eight Ball?”

      “What?”

      “What version do you want to play? I’m used to Nine Ball, where you have to shoot the balls in order. Most people play Eight Ball. But we can do either. I just think Nine Ball forces you to think more and provides more of a challenge.”

      “I think I better wait until after dinner to take you on.”

      I had more luck at Nine Ball than I did skill. I was not very good at leaving the ball set up for the next shot and so the target ball always ended up hidden behind a higher numbered ball, forcing my opponent to try complicated bank shots to get at the target ball. It was one of the things that made Nine Ball interesting.

      I found the rack and then set the balls: one ball at the point, nine ball in the center and balls two through eight in a diamond shape around the nine ball. I slid the rack to the marked spot and then carefully removed it.

      “Okay,” I said, “you break.”

      Rusty chose a stick from a row of them on the only flat wall. I chose one too, after rolling a couple to make sure they were straight. Rusty was amused watching me, but then traded his stick when he discovered how warped it was.

      He broke. His shot scattered the balls all over the table and two fell into pockets in the confusion. I think they got scared and dove for cover.

      “Okay, now you have to hit the one ball, or you can also use it to hit any of the other balls in. First one to sink the nine ball wins. If you miss the lowest numbered ball or sink the cue ball, it’s ball in hand.”

      He studied the table. He took careful aim at the one ball and almost made it. He might have sunk it if he’d been a little more gentle. It clung to the edge of the pocket begging me to sink it, but to just shoot it meant I’d scratch and it would be ball in hand. I bounced the cue ball off the side of the pocket barely nudging the one ball over the edge. The two ball lay across the table. There was a lot of green to cover and the seven ball was guarding the logical pocket. I used the two ball to sink the seven ball.

      There was a bump and some thumping downstairs, talk drifted up the stairs and we heard footsteps coming up to the attic. Rusty’s dad made his way up the stairs and across the room.

      “Uh oh,” he said, “who’s stripes?”

      “Nobody, Cassidy’s creaming me at Nine Ball.”

      “I am not. You got two in and then I got two in. But the two ball is a tough shot. It’s almost hidden behind the five ball. I can hit it but I can’t sink it. Or I can maybe try a bank shot and try for the side pocket, but that’s a long shot.”

      I decided just touching the ball was a better move defensively. I gave the cue ball a gentle tap and it slid between the five ball and the eight ball, just barely tapping the two and leaving Rusty with the cue ball, eight ball and two ball in a nice, neat row. They were all lined up in front of the corner pocket except for the lousy eight ball in the way. My luck was holding out.

      “I’m Bill,” his dad said giving me a firm handshake.

      “I’m Cassidy,” I replied, “it’s good to meet you.”

      “Likewise.”

      Rusty was forced to make a bank shot to hit the two ball. He studied the angles.

      “You’re right, it does force you to think. Instead of choosing the easiest shot on the table you’re stuck with the toughest one.”

      “Not always. It’s good practice. Once you play Nine Ball for a while you will think Eight Ball is too easy and too cluttered.”

      He tried a bank shot but missed. I lined up on the two ball.

      “I missed,” he admitted, “it’s ball in hand.”

      “Are you sure you want me to do that? I usually just keep shooting unless the cue ball goes in.”

      “Go ahead, it’s your rule. It’s my miss. It’s ball in hand.”

      “Okay,” I said, “you asked for it.”

      I picked up the cue ball, placed it on the table with the two ball and nine ball neatly lined up on the corner pocket and sunk the nine ball on an easy combo shot.

      “It was your own fault,” I said, “if you’d have just let me shoot you probably would have won.”

      “Do the games always go that fast?”

      “No, usually you end up sinking the balls in order until you finally get to the nine ball. Combo shots that make the nine ball sinkable are hard to spot. So the games are usually longer.”

      “Bill?” Rusty’s mom shouted up the stairs, “Find out what people want to drink with dinner. I’m putting it on the table now.”

      “Got beer?” Rusty asked.

      “Just ice water for me,” I added.

      “Got it,” said Bill and headed for the stairs.

      The table for six nearly filled the small dining room behind the stairs. Beyond it was a small kitchen painted in a cheery blue with white trim.

      “I’m sorry to drop in on you for dinner.” I apologized, “I know you weren’t expecting us.”

      Cody laughed.

      “Nonsense,” Rusty’s mom answered, “I never know how many to expect for dinner. If it wasn’t you it would probably be a group of people Cody brought home from work. You are still working, aren’t you?”

      “Barely,” answered Cody.

      His mom shook her head.

      Rusty passed the roast and I took a small piece. “Take another one,” he said. “Cassidy never eats right when she goes out on a call. She ends up eating backpacker food and giving most of it to kids who go do damn fool things like exploring abandoned mines.”

      “Well, you have to admit the boy did look remarkably well for being trapped in a mine for three days,” Rusty’s mom countered.

      “Trevor did great. I told him to let me know when he was hungry. There was no way to tell time so I didn’t know if he was eating only once or three times a day. I had only two days worth of food in my pack but cooked a meal whenever he was hungry. I can’t believe a ten year old boy only went through four backpacker meals in three days.”

      “And what did you eat?” Rusty asked.

      “I finished off whatever he left behind,” I admitted.

      “So,” Rusty said, “take another slice, there’s plenty.”

      I humored him by taking a second slice but then skipped the potatoes. My appetite worked the other way around. I hadn’t eaten much for days so I needed to build back up slowly.

      The doorbell rang. Rusty’s mom gave Cody a glare.

      “Set another place,” she said in a firm tone and then got up to answer the door. She opened it and I heard footsteps on the hardwood