I am in a tree house I’m too heavy for. A sip of whiskey and a hand-rolled smoke as I look out the only window. It’s raining on everything. A trailer that hasn’t been used in years and a rusted shed full of rusted tools. It’s raining on everything and everything is wet. Everything but me. I have the tree house. It’s maybe not the good life, but it’s the good-enough life. The washer and dryer sitting on the covered deck next to the trailer. Everything painted metal, pimpled and blistered with rust.