Chapter 1

When he found out I was cooking three meals a day for a group of old people, and that they'd sign their homes over to me after they died, my buddy's face went dark.

"Evan Sullivan, all you do is cook for them every day, and you have the nerve to want their houses? On top of charging them for groceries? Since when are you this greedy?"

Once he'd confirmed every one of the seniors could still take care of themselves, he dropped the act entirely.

He pulled me and all the seniors into one group chat, then laid it on thick: "To all of you, I only just found out that on top of your three meals a day, someone's been charging you a separate grocery fee."

"It's just a little meat and vegetables. How much can that really cost?"

"Your pensions aren't much to begin with. So starting today, I've decided to cook your three meals a day for free. All I ask is that when your time comes, you leave your homes to me, just as a keepsake."

The seniors, who a moment ago had been confused, all flipped sides, flooding the chat with thumbs-up stickers one after another.

Seeing more and more people move to his side, my buddy sent me a private message.

"I'm sorry, Evan. I never expected everyone to accept me like this. I guess you just weren't being fair to them before!"

I held it in for a long time before I managed not to laugh out loud.

I only hoped he'd take all these old princes and princesses off my hands. High returns on the surface, sure, but the whole thing was one trap after another.

...

Once it was settled that all thirteen seniors would be under his care, my buddy Geoffrey Roman got so excited he posted on his social media feed.

"Thirteen houses, locked in. Life as a landlord is going to be sweet from here on out."

He could already picture himself lying back and collecting rent. What he'd overlooked was the one condition for those thirteen houses landing in his hands: every one of these seniors had to be dead first.

And judging by how healthy they all were, well, that was going to take a while.

But I hadn't been gloating long before one of the seniors asked, all curious, in the chat: "But little Evan set a pretty high meal standard for me before. With this free deal of yours, you're not going to feed us plain greens and carrots every day, are you?"

The moment that went out, the seniors who'd just firmly picked Geoffrey started wavering again.

"Say what you want, but little Evan charged us extra for groceries every day, and he never once cut corners on the food."

That was Hilda Swanson, who lived in the unit above mine and had been the one to first float the whole elder-care plan.

At first I'd just been cooking at home for myself. She caught the smell, and come mealtime she'd show up at my door like a guest.

After I'd politely shown her out three times, she pitched it: I'd take care of her three meals a day, and when she died, the house in her name would be mine.

I didn't want to wade into that mess, so I politely walked her back out.

But then she brought a whole group of seniors and worked the emotional angle on me, and watching them plead with me, one hunched old body after another, I finally went soft.

Officially, I charged them forty-five dollars a day for groceries.

In reality, what I sank into it each month ran far past that.

For fish and seafood they'd only eat red snapper, the crab had to be king crab legs, and even the cheapest abalone had to be jumbo scallops.

Even the greens had me up before dawn to catch the first bus out to a rural farmstead, buying only the kind grown without growth stimulants or pesticides.

Sure enough, when Geoffrey was slow to say anything, someone started to waver.

Hilda Swanson was the first to message me.

"Little Evan, let's just treat the group chat as a joke. But your buddy has a point. Splitting hairs over money with a group of old folks who've willed you their inheritance, that's not a good look."

"Here's what we'll do. We'll give you five dollars a meal, same meal standard as before, and we'll still leave you our houses. What do you say?"

Looking at the message, my brow twitched, and I typed back fast: "I say no."

A hot potato I'd finally managed to throw off. There was no reason on earth to catch it again.

Hilda Swanson was no easy character. That understanding came to me after a year of looking after her.

She'd slipped in the shower once and called me.

I didn't pick up in time, but the moment I saw it I knew something had happened.

I rushed straight to her place, got her to the hospital, and covered the medical bills without a second's hesitation.

She'd held my hand then, eyes brimming with tears. "Evan, if it weren't for you, this old woman might not be here."

She'd praised me to the skies that day. But later, while I was helping her clear the storage on her phone, I stumbled onto a chat between her and a friend.

"Young people these days never put their phones down, do they? Bet he can't wait for me to die so he can inherit my estate. Good thing I'm too tough to go!"

A chill crept up from the soles of my feet and sank straight into my chest.

Right then I wanted to walk away and be done with it. But faced with the other kind, gentle old people, I couldn't bring myself to harden my heart.

So I kept things civil with Hilda Swanson on the surface. Now that my buddy was willing to take over, nothing could have suited me better.

Hilda Swanson didn't reply again, but my buddy posted something in the chat, and the mood in there changed at once.