The iron wheels of the green O2 tank shrieked against the hardwood, a sound like a dying bird. Frank gave the lead a violent tug, and the heavy cylinder tipped, slamming into a stack of milk crates filled with rusted plumbing joints.

“Help the tank, Ben. Don’t just stand there studying your cuticles.”

Ben stepped over a pile of damp National Geographics to right the cylinder. “I’m not studying my cuticles, Frank. I’m wondering how you expect to get to the bedroom tonight. This path is down to eleven inches.”

“I’ll thin down. Unlike you, I don’t eat my feelings in the form of gas station donuts every morning.”

Ben straightened the tank, careful not to kink the clear plastic tubing snaking up to Frank’s nose. “I had a bagel. And the point is the tank. It’s too wide for the hallway now.”

“The tank is fine. The hallway is fine. You’re just looking for an excuse to start throwing things away so you can get home to that empty apartment of yours. How is the silence, anyway? Does it ever get loud enough to remind you that your wife took the dog and the good furniture because you’re about as exciting as a Sunday school pamphlet?”

Ben didn’t flinch, though his hand tightened on the metal handle of the tank. “The furniture was hers, Frank. And we’re talking about the crates. They have to go to the garage.”

“They stay here. I’m sorting those joints. There’s brass in there.”

“You haven’t sorted a thing in three years. You just move the dust from one pile to another.”

Frank leaned into his walker, his chest rattling with a wet, heavy sound. He took a long, desperate draw of oxygen, his eyes fluttering. When he opened them, they were sharp with a predatory focus. “You think you’re so superior because you’ve got a badge and a paycheck. But we both know why you’re here, Ben. You’re a nursemaid because you couldn’t hack it in the real world. You failed that CPA exam three times, didn’t you? My tax records are in the blue bin—I saw your name on the local failure list in the paper years ago. You’re a man who counts other people’s money because he can’t make any of his own.”

Ben felt a familiar heat rise in his chest. “I’m a caregiver, Frank. It’s a choice.”

“It’s a retreat. You’re hiding in my mess because it makes your life look organized by comparison. You look at these crates and feel ‘tidy.’ It’s a pathetic way to build an ego, son. Using a dying man’s clutter to feel like a success.”

“I’m moving the crates, Frank.”

“Touch them and I’ll tell the agency you hit me. I’ll tell them you stole the silver service from the sideboard.”

“There is no silver on the sideboard, Frank. There are eighteen broken transistor radios and a stack of Sears catalogs.”

“You wouldn’t know silver if it bit you on your soft, pampered nose. Go on, then. Move them. Show me how brave you are when the opponent is a plastic box. It’s probably the only fight you’ve ever won.”

Ben grabbed the top crate. It was heavier than it looked, packed with lead pipes and silt. He hauled it toward the door, his shoulder brushing a tower of VHS tapes that wobbled dangerously.

“Watch the tapes!” Frank barked, yanking his oxygen tank forward. The wheels caught on the rug, and the tank lurched, nearly pulling the cannula out of Frank’s face. “You clumsy idiot! You’re going to kill me just so you can have a clear view of the baseboards!”

“I’m trying to keep you alive!” Ben shouted back, his patience finally snapping. “You can’t breathe, Frank! You’re dragging sixty pounds of steel through a labyrinth of garbage! If you fall, you’re dead. There’s no room for me to even give you CPR!”

Frank stared at him, his mouth slightly open, the oxygen hissing steadily. For a second, Ben thought he had reached him. Then, Frank’s lip curled.

“CPR? From you? I’d rather the heart attack finished the job. At least the silence would be professional. Your breath smells like desperation and cheap coffee. It’s offensive.”

Ben set the crate down. He took a slow, deep breath, smelling the stagnant air, the old paper, and the metallic tang of the oxygen. He looked at Frank—thin, grey, and clutching a walker like a shield.

“Why do you do it, Frank?”

“Do what? Exist? To spite you, mostly.”

“No. Why the personal shots? I’m the only person who hasn’t quit. I’m the only one who brings you the black licorice you like and checks the sports scores for you. Why try so hard to make me hate you?”

Frank sat down on a stool that was buried under a pile of old mail. He adjusted the tubing on his face with trembling fingers. “Because you pity me. And pity is just an insult wrapped in a bandage. You look at me and you see a ‘case.’ You see a ‘lifestyle problem.’ I see a man who still owns every piece of his history. You’ve got nothing but a lease and a car payment, Ben. You’re a ghost. I’m a mountain.”

“A mountain of trash, Frank.”

“It’s my trash. Every piece of it has a name. Those pipes? I pulled those out of the Miller estate in ’92. That was the best job I ever did. These magazines? They have the diagrams for the world I used to understand. You want to clear the path so you can feel helpful. I want the path narrow so I know exactly where the world ends and I begin.”

Ben looked at the crate in his hands. He realized then that Frank wasn’t being mean because he was confused. He was being mean because it was the only way to keep the walls up. If Ben was a “failure” or a “vulture,” then Frank didn’t have to feel small for needing him.

“I’m moving the filing cabinet next,” Ben said quietly.

“You touch those files and I’ll haunt you before I’m even dead. I’ll make sure every night you close your eyes, you hear the sound of those wheels.”

“I’m moving it six inches to the left. Just six inches, Frank. So the tank doesn’t clip the corner anymore.”

“Six inches today, the whole house tomorrow. You’re an incrementalist. A slow-motion thief.”

“I’m a guy who doesn’t want to find you blue on the floor.”

Ben pushed the cabinet. It groaned against the floor, shifting just enough to widen the gap. He waited for the next explosion, the next deep cut about his father or his bank account.

Frank just watched him, his chest rising and falling. “You missed a spot of dust under there. Typical. Can’t even do a proper job of interfering.”

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” Ben said.

“You’ll be late tomorrow. You’re always four minutes late. It’s how you assert your tiny bit of power, isn’t it? Making the old man wait for his water.”

Ben picked up his clipboard and made a note. He didn’t feel the sting this time. He realized the insults were just more clutter Frank was throwing in the way—verbal milk crates meant to trip him up so Frank didn’t have to deal with the reality of the situation.

“I’ll see you at 8:00 AM, Frank. Not 8:04.”

“I won’t be holding my breath. Mostly because I can’t.” Frank turned his walker around, the oxygen tank screeching as it followed him into the dim light of the kitchen. “And get the red licorice next time. The black stuff tastes like your personality. Bitter and hard to swallow.”

Ben walked to the door, stepping carefully through the narrow trail. He paused at the threshold and looked back. Frank was already back to poking at a pile of old wires.

“Goodnight, Frank.”

“Go home, Ben. The walls are probably missing you.”

Ben walked to the front door, stepping over the stacks of paper without feeling the usual urge to complain about them. He looked back at Frank, who was already busy untangling a knot of old power cords. He finally understood that he couldn’t “fix” Frank or turn him into a different person. Frank was settled in his ways, and as long as Ben kept the path wide enough for the equipment, he was doing his job.

He stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him. The evening air felt clean, and for the first time in months, Ben didn’t feel like he had lost a battle. He realized that Frank’s words didn’t have power over him unless he let them. He walked to his car, the silence of the street feeling like a reward rather than a void. He’d be back at 8:00 AM. And he’d probably bring the red licorice.