“I’ve been trying to make him keep it anyway.”
Evan yanked his backpack from the floor.
“I hate all of you.”
Cal pointed at him.
“There. That’s normal thirteen-year-old behavior. Keep that part.”
Evan sat stiffly beside me the entire drive to Mason Tire.
I knew the place.
I hadn’t been there in years.
But I remembered one particular afternoon perfectly.
Jeremy had been dead four months.
It was February.
Cold.
Rainy.
Our old sedan got a flat.
I drove to Mason Tire thinking I needed a patch.
Twenty minutes later, the owner told me the tire was ruined.
Then he looked at the opposite side.
The second tire was nearly bald.
I could afford one.
Not two.
I remember standing at the counter trying not to cry.
Ten-year-old Evan sat nearby drinking hot chocolate someone had given him.
I asked:
“Can the second tire wait two weeks?”
The owner looked at me.
Then at Evan.
Then said:
“Probably shouldn’t.”
I swallowed.
“I only have enough for one.”
He disappeared into the garage.
Forty minutes later, he replaced both.
When I reminded him I could not pay for the second one, he slid the invoice across the counter.
“Then don’t today.”
I started crying before I made it to the car.
I hadn’t thought about that afternoon in years.
Not until I saw TIRES written on Evan’s bus map.
The same owner was standing behind the counter when we entered.
He had more gray hair now.
He looked up.
Then saw Evan.
His expression immediately changed.
“Oh, no.”
Evan stopped walking.
The man pointed at him.
“You promised me you were done.”
I looked between them.
“Done with what?”
