Ryan pushed through the hedges to the porch on the back of the house where Pop used to sit, staring out at the lake, his binoculars beside him on the wrought iron table.
“Wow, he really let the old place go, didn’t he?”
“He’s been sick, Ryan. You’d know that if you ever came by.”
He ran a hand along the peeling paint, then brushed the flakes on his leg. “So. What do you think we can get for this place?”
“You mean sell it? We practically grew up here.”
He snorted, yanking at a vine. “All the more reason.”