Ten years ago? How old am I when Floyd first takes me there—four? I’m wearing new plaid shorts with the crease still in them. He wouldn’t let me put on my Tonka T-shirt because a Tonka isn’t a GM. He tells me the names of all the cars in the showroom—Blazer, Sunfire, Cavalier, and Camaro—and I rattle them off after him. The other salesmen laugh. Someone gives me a red balloon, someone else puts money in a machine and out comes an orange ball of bubblegum. I say thank you. Floyd is proud of me.

Although it’s only a five-minute walk to the bank on Main Street, it feels like five miles. People on the sidewalk glance at my face, look away fast. Same holds true in the bank, especially after I take off the dark glasses. The teller is pretty; she’s wearing a tight green sweater. I’m surprised that sweater made it past the manager. Then again, if he’s a guy, maybe not.

I say I want to open a savings account and push the money at her. Two hundred dollars minus the headset, plus the stash, which amounts to $418 in small bills. I don’t tell her the latter has been stolen over a period of five years. Some of it was kids’ lunch money, but mostly it’s from Opal.

I keep back fifteen dollars to buy Cassie a white teddy bear.

The teller says I can’t have a bank card without parental consent. Superpolite, I say the money’s for saving, not spending. She glances at my black eye (actually red, pink, purple, and yellow), passes me the little blue bankbook and says, unconvincingly, “Of course.”

I walk out. I’ll hide the bankbook in my room. No worries now that Floyd will find my stash.

4.4 [book learning]

ON THE way back to the ATV, I pass The Laughing Loon, the bookstore Glenn’s father owns. He added a café where you can sit on the deck in summer, sip your iced tea with lemon, and watch the tide go in and out. Tourists go for that kind of thing.

Glenn is sitting on the step. My dark glasses are back on, but they’re useless for a split lip. He says, “You took on Snyder McIsaac.”

“Not likely.”

“You lost an argument with a bouncer.”

“Troubles enough without adding booze to the mix.”

His lashes flicker; I didn’t mean to sound so bitter. He says, “You fired a rock at a bear cub whose mother objected.”

His dad’s inside the store, so he knows he’s safe. How weird must that be. I give him a skewed smile, which is all I can manage, and keep walking.

The library is across the road from the bookstore. If there’s anyplace I feel at home, it’s the library.