He was standing there, with his tattoos and shaved head, the cool hard look he’d adopted ever since he got to Saint Dominic’s, holding those perfume bottles, and it reminded me of a time we had gone shopping with our mother. This was in Fedco. Back then she used to bring us there, and we loved it. The place was huge. We would run up and down the aisles among the crowds of shoppers, pretending we were pirates in some far-off Caribbean port city. We were friends then. After an hour or so we always grew tired and started searching for her, among all the people, and sometimes this could be difficult. That day it took longer than normal, and I was getting hungry for pizza, which we always got after she paid. I was feeling weak from not eating, and Tomas sensed this, so he had me wait on a chair in the shoe department and searched for her. When he could not find her he came back with a slice for me. He had bought it himself. We finally found her at the makeup counter. She had taken a number—you had to get a ticket and wait for them to call you, because there were so many people—and she was sitting in a chair, practically crying. It turned out they had passed her number without calling it out and she had been too timid to tell them, so she got a new one. I am still not sure why she was so upset—at the time I thought it was all the waiting, but now I suspect she was upset with herself for not speaking up. Tomas put a hand on her shoulder. Then he reached down and uncupped her loosely clenched fingers and took out the old balled-up ticket and brought it to the counter and got a saleswoman’s attention and our mother bought the perfume she wanted. Or, anyway, one she could afford.

III

He keeps the motor running. Eddy Ho’s Wrangler is less than fifteen yards away, in the open garage.

Don’t look so sick, Junior.

I’m not sick.

He studies me. You look like you’re about to vomit. You better get outside. If you mess up my upholstery I’m going to add it onto your bill.

I clench my teeth and try to let the angry feeling pass. How many more times are you going to make me do this?

You worry about getting into that Jeep before someone sees us.

You could tell me real quick.

He ignores me and studies the alleyway. A large mutt—unaware of Greta—works an overturned trash can.

Why don’t you just tell me now? I say.

Because I don’t feel like it, Junior.