Directly across from Polly’s was the Dozer. The flaps of the red-and-white tent had been tied down, and now she carefully set her coffee mug out of the way to untie the flaps and fold them back on both sides till the Dozer was open to the midway on both sides again. She unlocked the sides of the wagon itself and snapped out the hinges that held them up and away so that customers could get to the stations. Then she retrieved her coffee and stepped up into the well of the wagon.

The police had removed their yellow tape late yesterday afternoon, and she knew that Arnie had seen to having the floor scrubbed clean by one of the townies they’d hired on for the week. Today the Dozer would go back into operation.

“You sure you want to do this?” Arnie had asked her when she said she’d work it.

He thought she wouldn’t want to stand in the spot where Braz had been killed, but she certainly didn’t feel up to working the Guesser. Talking trash to the crowds as they streamed onto the lot? No way. Anyhow, the Dozer took less concentration than any of their other stores, which is why they’d put Braz on it. All you had to do was make change and occasionally explain which game pieces could be exchanged for which prizes. Besides, it was always too much temptation to green clerks. All those shiny quarters tumbling off the side spills into the baskets? For her to lay out another day would mean a serious financial drain.

Now she stood where her firstborn had died and drank a long steadying drink of her coffee. She was neither superstitious nor religious nor even particularly sentimental, but if anything remained of Braz, surely it would be here?

Incoherent thoughts crowded through her head. Images of Braz the first time they’d put him in her arms all red and screaming with colic that had gone on and on and on for what seemed like four solid months without a break. Braz as a toddler underfoot in Hartley’s grab wagon, curled up under the counter for an afternoon nap while she tried to be careful that no hot grease splattered on him. Braz at six hysterical with rage because she wouldn’t let him come on her honeymoon with Arnie. They were only gone two nights and he adored Irene Matusik, who babysat him and spoiled him rotten, but he’d never gotten over that sense of abandonment and hurt. She had spent the next two years trying to convince him that he was still loved and valued, but when Val was born—Val, whose sunny disposition and easy ways endeared him to everyone—it was like a huge empty hole had opened up inside of her first son and there wasn’t enough love in the world to fill it.

A low stool stood next to the end wall, and she sat down on it and rested her throbbing head against the cool metal ledge. Here in the morning dimness of the Dozer well, her eyes filled as she thought about his life.