"He is a good guy," Cricket nods. "Smart, too. Maybe he'd come fishin' with us in the Spring. I think he'd like you a'ight."

Sometimes it's hard to tell when Forrest likes someone: Cricket knows this from experience. But Kinner is the kind of gruff quiet he'd appreciate.

He makes a concerned face at the mention of the Thing, nodding slowly. "Shoot. I reckon it does. I mean, there ain't no Thing here, but...yeah, everything else must feel similar, even down to you doin' the cooking."

Unfortunately, there's not much Cricket can do to help with that. "I got your back, though. Promise you that."

"Mama...died when I was about six?" he adds, worrying his lip. "Of the Spanish flu. It was real bad that year. I'm just hopin' we don't get a lot of sickness here, 'cause I don't know what we'd do."