The Good Atheist by Michael Manto

property and everything on it, and the contents of the cottage. The cottage has basic electrical service. It’s on well water, so be careful of consumption. Don’t flush the toilets too often – only when you really need to,” he added with a smile.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Selene said.
    “Just like camping when I was a kid,” I said, trying to put a helpful spin on things.
    “There are no debts or liens. You own it free and clear. There’s also a nice little savings account. You’re not billionaires, but he left you a comfortable nest egg. Let’s take care of the legalities before we go in,” Richard said, and held his datapad out for me. “Sign here please.”
    Using my index finger, I scribbled my signature across the surface of his device.
    “Thanks. Do you have your device?” The lawyer asked.
    I pulled out my phone, and he touched his datapad to it. “Now you’ve got all the documents. The deed, the will, and powers of attorney. It’s all yours now.” Then he pulled a ring of metal keys out of a pocket and rattled them. “Well, let’s go in, shall we?”
    We followed Richard across the porch to the front door, where he held up the keys for us to see. “I’m afraid there’s no swipe card or electronic locks with passcodes here. The locks still use old-style metal keys.” He fumbled with the keys for a few seconds. “Not that Ben ever locked his place,” he added. He finally found the right key and inserted it into the lock. The door creaked open and we stepped into a bright, cozy, living room. Sunlight streamed in through a large south-facing window, with a view of the wooded hills beyond the fields. There was a comfortable-looking couch and a couple of large wing-backed chairs and several end tables.
    Beautifully beaded wainscoting covered the lower third of the walls. “Is all this paneling real?” I asked. “It looks like real oak.”
    “Yes. He only used genuine wood,” he said. “He detested the artificial stuff.”
    I looked around, admiring the luxurious paneling. I’d never seen so much real wood. Selene grabbed my elbow and pointed at a black iron monstrosity sitting in the corner. “What’s that?”
    “That’s a wood stove,” I said. There was a large comfortable chair in front of it, next to a neat stack of wood along the wall. I’d used wood stoves before, while on fishing trips up north, but Selene was barely aware of life outside the big city. Her idea of roughing it was a fast-food restaurant without a drive-thru. But the wood stove got me wondering, and I turned to Richard. “How’s this place heated?”
    “Oil. But he used the wood stove to heat the place when the power went out, which happens a lot around here in the winter, I’m afraid.” The lawyer went on, filling us in on the vagaries of the local weather, no doubt believing that we would be as fascinated as he was now that we owned property in the area. But my thoughts drifted to the woods outside and Selene’s eyes glazed over. She pulled her phone out of a pocket and looked at the screen. With her, like most people, checking for messages every minute had become a neurotic habit, almost like a nervous tic on your face that you can’t stop.
    “There’s no signal,” Selene said, tapping at the screen of her phone.
    Richard looked at her as she tried to prod her phone to life. “There’s no cell coverage out here,” he said. “You won’t get a signal until you’re back on the highway closer to town.”
    Selene’s eyes shot up. “You’re kidding? There’s no phone? No internet?”
    He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He turned away, and pointed to a hallway leading off the living room. “You’ll find the bathroom and bedrooms down that way,” he said. Next he brought our attention to a wide set of French double doors with frosted panes to our left. “Office and library is in there. It has a nice a view of the pond and garden. Personally, it’s my favorite room in the