The smell hits you before you even open the front door. Something between barnyard and swamp water, with a faint undertone of mud. Familiar, at this point. Outside, Bessalyn is standing barefoot in the dirt, her big belly shaking with laughter as she holds up a fistful of rocks. Her boots - your wedding anniversary gift to her - are nowhere in sight. A stranger is walking away with them. She doesn't notice. She's already popping a pebble into her mouth like it's a snack. Behind the fence, Prudwell has his arms crossed and his eyebrows somewhere near his hairline, watching it all unfold with barely disguised glee. Somebody has to handle this. That somebody is always you.