He turned and walked out. I hesitated. Then I followed him into the bedroom. He was opening the dresser’s bottom drawer and removing sheets.

I forced a strained laugh. “I would never have looked there. Thanks. I really didn’t want to be looking at all. I just thought I’d check the bathroom closet and then I’d have given up.” I had my hands out for the sheets, but he walked past me and started unfolding them on the bed.

“I can do that,” I said.

No response.

I picked up the discarded sheets. “Where can I put these? You send it out, right? Is there someplace …”

He started making the bed. I folded the soiled sheets as well as I could, babbling the whole time.

Just going to put these here, right over here, and did I mention how sorry I am for snooping, except I wasn’t really snooping, because I’d never do that.

“I’m going to take the sofa,” I said. “I’m so sorry about this. I guess the sheets weren’t that wet. I should have just left them.”

He picked up a pillow and changed the case.

“I am sorry,” I said. “You know I don’t pry. I hope you know that. I’ll … I’ll be on the sofa, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

I got halfway to the door. Then, “Wait.”

I turned. He had his back to me, kneeling in front of the bedside table, and I thought I’d misheard, but I paused anyway. He reached under the top shelf of the table. There was a ripping sound. He folded a length of duct tape and set it on the table. Then he turned with a gun in his hand.

I started in surprise. Yes, I suppose having a pissed-off guy pull out a gun was cause for shock. But the surprise was simply seeing him with a weapon.

He set the gun on the bed. Then he reached between the mattress and box spring, pulled out a knife, and put it beside the gun. Money came next, taped under the bed, an envelope of hundreds, which he dumped onto the sheet. He walked to the closet, dug into the back, and took out a case of Coke.

When he walked wordlessly past me and out the door, I looked at those things on the bed, that odd collection of items he’d kept stashed away. The gun I understood, for home security. Gun plus a knife? Options. The money made sense. The case of Coke, though? I stared at that and I thought of the stew in the bathroom closet and then …

Then I understood.

As he walked back in, carrying the carton of stew, I said, “Oh.”

He stopped short, still no expression but his jaw tensing as he said, “Oh?”

I opened my mouth to say that I got it, that I understood. Then I realized how presumptuous that sounded. And how much worse this could get if I was wrong, and it seemed I was trying to analyze him.

So instead I said, “When I was in first grade, my teacher went on mat leave and we had a substitute for two months.”

That got a lifting of the brows and an expression that could best be summed up as Huh? I moved to the bed and lowered myself beside the weapons and money.

“She was a real bitch,” I said. “She’d retired a few years before. I’m guessing she needed extra cash and resented that, so she took it out on the kids. She had this rule that you couldn’t use the bathroom except at recess and lunch. I didn’t think much about it until one day I had to go bad. Really bad. My stomach started cramping and, well, I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say I had an accident. Then I had to sit there while it seeped … Yep, skipping the details. The point is that by the time I could get up, everyone knew exactly what had happened. For weeks, they called me a baby. One of the boys brought me a diaper and …” I stopped and looked over at him. “As childhood traumas go, I know that’s really lame. Compared to—Well, compared to most kids. But I had a damned near perfect childhood. Other kids liked me well enough, and I’d never been picked on, and for me this was traumatic. All I could think was that the whole thing could have been avoided if I’d had clean underwear in my backpack.”

His brows lifted again.

“Yes, I know. That makes no sense. Clean underwear wouldn’t have fixed anything. But it was like … it was like I needed to feel I could control the situation. To make sure that it never happened again. Which I could do by keeping clean underwear in my backpack. I don’t even want to admit how many years I did that. It was about feeling that, if I had those, I’d never have to endure a trauma like that again. I was prepared.”

I looked at the weapons and food and money, and I winced. “And that is the worst analogy ever. I’m sorry. I was trying … I wanted … Obviously, me and my clean underwear story isn’t anything close to …” I pressed my palms to my eyes and got up. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and babbling. I just wanted …”

“To tell me you understood.”

“Which I don’t, obviously. I can’t, and to even pretend I can is presumptuous.”

He shook his head. “It’s not.”

“It is, and I’m sorry. Whatever reason you have for keeping this around is your business, and if you want to explain, then I’m happy to listen, but I won’t analyze and pretend I get it.”

“Tell me what you think it is,” he said.

“I don’t want to—”

“If you’re wrong, that’s fine.” He looked at me. “But I don’t believe you are.”

I took a deep breath and turned to the items on the bed. “Weapons, money, food, drink … It’s survival stuff. Like what people stash away in case of a natural disaster or a nuclear bomb or, hell, a zombie apocalypse. It makes them feel the same way I did, carrying around clean underwear. Like they’re in control and prepared. Except you aren’t worried about the end of the world. For you, it really is about survival. You lived for years where all this”—I waved at the items—“was a matter of life and death, and I’m sure there were times when you didn’t have it, not nearly enough of it, and now you do and …”