Chapter 7: What He Said at the Counter

I read the bank's email four times before dawn, and then I put the phone face down on the bench and went back to work.

I could not fix the house at three in the morning.

I could fix a bike.

By nine, a line of customers stood at my father's counter.

Hank came in with two coffees and a small, serious girl holding his sleeve.

"This is my daughter," he said. "She's on her way to school. She's been told she can't ask you for anything."

"I want a helmet," the girl said at once.

"What happened to not asking?"

"It's not asking if it's a statement."

I laughed, and my hand ached under the gauze.

"What kind of helmet?" I asked her.

"A bike one. Pink, with stars. And a dragon." She considered. "A small dragon."

"I can do a small dragon."

"By Saturday?"

"By Saturday."

She nodded once, and let her father walk her out to the truck.

When Hank came back in, I was ringing up a man's oil change and could not look at him.

"She's nine," he said, quietly, setting my coffee on the counter. "She decides everything."

"I noticed."

"I'm sorry. She heard I was coming here."

"Don't be sorry. Tell her the dragon will have wings."

His expression went soft and surprised.

Then the door banged open, and the room changed.

Travis walked in without his sling.

He had it hanging off his neck, empty, and he was holding a folded set of papers in his good hand.