We're standing in the small clearing behind the guesthouse. Peter is watching Deal or no deal on TV. While Jan enjoys a secret cigarette, I watch the fog burn off the pink rocks on the hill above the property, revealing mustard plants in yellow ribbons a few bushes at a time. Jan puts her ciggy out on the sole of one of her white therapeutic shoes and puts the butt back into the red and white Marlboro box. She peels open a bag of Planter's Spanish peanuts. “I'm sorry if your parents are dead or something,” she says into my silence.