That’s what I say anytime our home’s thick groan inches its way down the hall. It means the wooden pegs are conforming to their chiseled mortices. It means the roof is done pawing at the sky. But if you know this house then you know about Greg. Hip height, lives in the crawl space, eyes like little jade coals. Been here longer than we have. I come with the house, he used to say, laughing. I didn’t find it funny, but humor is so subjective. He's scared away dozens of prior tenants, his voice pitched high like the end of an aborted dream. Wasn’t trying to, just found something he’s good at and stuck with it. Like my dad and his second family. Sometimes on Sundays when the kids have gone to their mother’s, I invite Greg upstairs to eat chocolate ice cream out of bowls shaped like half moons while we watch the Bears game. He gets so excited when they score. He likes to nuzzle his beveled head, pock-marked as a snail's tongue, into the crook of my arm like a tenon joint. It always makes such a satisfying thunk.