“Is the sweat of a four-mile run not enough proof?” Greyson asked, pointing at the modest damp spot on his t-shirt, which was mostly modest because of the material, he was sure there was much more sweat glistening on his forehead, and even his forearms, that proved he had just physically exerted himself.
“You just grabbed some water from the creek,” the stocky man scoffed. “You had to do something to hide what you were really up to.”
“There’s no water in that creek,” Greyson replied. “But even if there was, water never smells like sweat, so take a whiff.”
The stocky man stepped forward, putting his nose close to Greyson’s chest and sniffing loudly. His face twisted in what Greyson was sure wasn’t so much a grimace at the odour he was drawing into his nostrils so much as it was a surge of rage that Greyson was, in fact, telling the truth.
“What were you doing before you went out on your run?” the stocky man demanded irritably.
“Sleeping,” Greyson replied. “As well as dressing and relieving myself.”
This elicited the same profane scoff of disbelief from the stocky man as before.
“Look, Mr. Fransbergen told me that he, and everyone in his house, was going to stay out of my business if I stayed out of theirs,” Greyson swore. “Since I don’t want him, or you, or anyone else, sticking their noses into my business, I don’t mean to stick my nose into yours. What you’re doing right now, however, is getting into my business, and if you don’t stop then I will start getting into your business, so shove off.”
The stocky man crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared at Greyson with his hazel eyes.
“I don’t like you,” he said, almost childishly.
“That doesn’t matter,” Greyson replied. “I have a signed agreement that I can live in the trailer as long as I need. Besides, for the record, I don’t like you either, but you almost never get to choose your neighbours.”
The stocky man opened his mouth to speak, but without his mouth moving a voice that sounded further away, hoarser, rougher, and harsher shouted: “Andy!”
Greyson saw Mr. Fransbergen standing at the veranda rail, the front door ajar behind him. The stocky man snapped his mouth shut and turned to look at Mr. Fransbergen.
“What did I tell you two days ago about Ehrhardt?” Mr. Fransbergen demanded.
Looking rather sulky, the stocky man said nothing.
“I told you to leave, him, alone!” Mr. Fransbergen shouted. “Now do it!”
The stocky man — Andy, apparently — hunched his shoulders and stalked back toward the house. He mumbled profanities in not all that quiet of a voice and gestured rudely at Greyson.
Once Andy was no longer looking, Greyson made the same gesture back at Andy with a glare before looking up at Mr. Fransbergen who was staring at him with suspicion, but not hostility. He nodded to Mr. Fransbergen, as he was sure he would never have won an argument with Andy — he didn’t seem the sort who could effectively be argued with — before turning to finish walking back to the trailer.
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