“I don’t know,” Michelle said again. She shuddered a little at the thought and then offered an obvious answer. “Storage, I guess?”

“Storage?” winced Justin.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Michelle. “Funeral home?”

And they thought about Uncle Clair’s dead body being in storage. At the funeral home. Or wherever.

And that wasn’t fun.

And, even though he had no intention of ever living in a place where a body had to wait till May or June to be buried, Justin decided then and there that he was going to be cremated.

At about seven, they arrived at Last Gas, and Michelle pulled into the parking lot. And they went inside and soon stopped thinking about Renee Saucier and Uncle Clair—and when he was going to get buried. And they had some laughs as they looked at all the useless stuff that hikers and fishermen/women and hunters and campers from away would buy as souvenirs. Stuff like tobogganing bear figurines and plastic moose-shaped candy dispensers that poop chocolate pellets and T-shirts that say “I ❤ ME.” Which were so annoying, Justin thought. Anyone who wore one of those shirts looked really conceited, because not many people know that “ME” is the postal abbreviation for the state of Maine. So if you’re wearing one of those shirts, people just think that you’re announcing to the world that you love yourself.

Then they played a couple of classic video games in the arcade corner.

And then they checked out the clothing and camping and survival supplies.

And then they looked at some watches and compasses and knives and guns—which were all locked away behind glass.

And then they headed over to the café section and checked out the pizza carousel and the hot dog broiler and the bakery case and the beverage refrigerator.

Justin got himself a cream horn (a flaky pastry tube filled with sweet, fluffy cream) and a Yoo-hoo—which was chocolate not-milk. And Michelle got herself a slice of pizza and a Moxie, a sweet and bitter cola made in New England that people either loved or hated.

When they went to pay, the middle-aged woman at the counter looked up with a smile and said hi. But her smile quickly became a scowl when she saw Justin’s midnight-blue nails. And his long black hair with the blue streak in it.

Her scowl made Justin remember that someone like him really stuck out in places like northern Maine.

Justin paid for their food with the twenty Aunt Belinda had given him and got a five-dollar bill and four ones and a nickel for change. Then he and Michelle sat down at a table in Last Gas’s café section.

“So … what’s life like for Justin Legassie, rock star?” asked Michelle.

“It’s Legacy now.”

“Huh?”

“I go by Justin Legacy now.”

“Oh. Is that like—a stage name?”

“I guess. Maybe. Mostly I just hate ‘Legassie.’ It’s ugly.”

Michelle couldn’t deny this. Legassie is a French name, but, like many surnames in northern Maine, it’s often pronounced in an anglicized way: “luh-GAS-ee.” Which made Justin the butt of a lot of fart jokes growing up.