A text message pings through to my phone.

‘I’d better . . .’ Cedar is at the Merc. All that time in here and I haven’t given him a thought. ‘My . . . Cedar . . . my partner’s son . . .’

Ellen nods, and looks away from me. ‘Sure, sure.’

The phone nearly slips from my hand as I pull it from my pocket. I fumble around trying to get to the message.

It’s the Merc – of course it is – wondering where I am. Cedar’s finished. He is okay. He has not been turned out onto the street. The past two weeks, I’ve gone back there in twenty minutes, been there while he’s finished the job. Watched him finish it to make sure he’s doing it right and everyone’s happy.

‘I never got you that water,’ she says.

Cedar is hanging around near the counter of the Merc when I walk in, half a donut in his hands, shards of chocolate frosting stuck to his face.

‘They gave me this,’ he tells me through a mouthful.

‘I’d be happy to pay for it.’ I look over to the staff member behind the counter – Chris, I think his name is. ‘I’m going to pick up a few things anyway.’

‘We’re good,’ he says. ‘The donut is on the house.’ He indicates Cedar and the donut with his hand and gives a nod that is almost a bow, endowing the gesture with a solemnity that Cedar takes at face value. Chris is late twenties, burly, bearded, a lumberjack archetype who, from a previous conversation, is more a gamer who rarely sees daylight. ‘And, after three solid displays of window cleaning, I’ve been instructed by management to suspend the remainder of Cedar’s community service for good behaviour. If you’re agreeable.’

Cedar goes to punch the air, then puts the brakes on and pulls it back as he realises it’s not a done deal. A chunk of donut breaks loose and drops to the floor without him noticing.

‘I believe I can agree to that.’ I give Cedar a look that befits the judicial tone of proceedings. ‘Please pass on my thanks to the management.’

Chris nods and almost smiles.

Cedar clenches a fist and says, ‘Yes!’ under his breath.

He stays in his spot near the counter while I take a basket and try to get my head around lunch. The Merc’s shelves are always stacked high, with everything from blue cheese to bear bells to firewood to kombucha. Back at the counter, Cedar looks as if he’s all about the donut, but I know that, inside, the thought of freedom is bubbling away. There’s some of that in me, too. That sinking feeling of the theft has risen up and left, or started leaving. I can come back here almost the way I used to, as a customer, not as a community-service escort. Lacy could never bring him. My basket is half full of dumb stuff before I realise it, and I retrace my steps putting most of it back.