Megan said Cal’s will have what he needs. He didn’t bother questioning her or calling ahead. Where Megan is concerned, he’s used to doing what he’s told.

At least, he does when he understands what she’s telling him, which isn’t always. He thinks back to the lecture, or whatever that was, which she gave him in the cab of her truck earlier, and still isn’t sure what his takeaway was supposed to be.

Mulling that over, he leaves the truck running in a parking stall close to the entrance and runs into Cal’s, not bothering to button his coat, his bare hands shoved down in the pockets. He’s only exposed to the cold for ten seconds or so, but it’s long enough that he’s shuddering as the door falls closed behind him in the vestibule at the entrance, where he scrapes the snow off his boots and passes through the second set of doors into the store’s much warmer interior.

Cal Senior was an avid hunter in his youth, and when the store opened, it became a gallery for his moth-eaten trophies. As kids, Johnny and Danny had been torn between horror and fascination by all the taxidermy, and Robbie understood the feeling. Even now, he carefully avoids the stare of a coyote’s slightly crooked glass eyes and the antelope that looks like its narrow lips are pulled into an eerie smirk.

The trophies are interspersed with actual, untidy inventory. The place looks like a hoarder’s garage sale, but the Cals always magically know where everything is. So, Robbie heads toward the counter without bothering to try looking for himself.

Cal Junior is behind the counter on a tall stool, his feet propped up on the counter and a giant automotive parts magazine spread open across his thighs. He peers at Robbie from under the flat brim of a trucker-style ballcap and grins.

“Hey, there, Mr. Chase,” he says, pulling his feet off the counter one by one, unhurriedly. “You need somethin’ in particular?”

Being called “Mr. Chase” always makes Robbie feel old, especially right now, speaking to someone who’s probably a year or two older than Lance.

“Yeah,” Robbie says, and tells him.

Cal nods, sauntering out from behind the counter. “I was just talking to Mel. He was in here a little bit ago. Mel Pryor?”

“I know Mel,” Robbie says, following Cal around the end cap of the aisle adjacent to the counter and down the narrow gap between shelves. Mel was a couple years ahead of Robbie in school, and he’s been a part-time police officer in town since he graduated, working more when things are slow at the family farm, less during harvest and calving season.

“He asked if I’d been past the cop lot. Guess they’ve got an impounded car. A Mercedes. Blue. You believe that?” He pauses and knocks back his hat so that he can read the labels on the various stacks of paper sacks filled with dehydrated milk, which he’s found tucked between a plastic-wrapped block of mulch and a stack of garden hoses. “Here, this is what you want.”