"Nonsense. Spare the rod, spoil the child."

Norma gave him an apologetic look as Ruby shuffled out of the room, the tennis balls on her walker thudding softly on the linoleum. Then she poured Ruby's tea down the sink. "That nasty old broad'll be the death of me."

"If you're lucky," Martin said.

"Well, I guess I'll show you to your rooms. Though I sure wouldn't fault you for getting in that car and driving as far away from here as possible while you still have the chance," she added with a dry chuckle.

It was a relatively nice day, so they decided to forgo the car and walk into town as Ruby had suggested.

His old neighborhood had blossomed in the past thirty-five years. When he was a kid, there'd only been two houses out on this side of the island: theirs and a house that belonged to the mayor. Now it was a small suburb with cookie-cutter bungalows and semis, smooth asphalt streets and neatly manicured lawns dusted with snow, the streets all named after counties in Ireland: Cork Road, Cavan Street, Kildare Avenue, Londonderry Crescent, Limerick Lane.

He pointed out his old school as they walked by, remarking how being back here made him feel tall. Small children laughed and played in the schoolyard. Older children stood outside in a huddled mass, a few of them surreptitiously vaping or dragging on cigarettes, eyeing the two adults suspiciously as they moved past.

At the entrance to the chain link fence, a young mother pulled her weeping boy of nine or ten along by the hand toward the open door of their minivan. His shirt was torn. He had smudges of dirt on his face and elbows and skinned knees.

"You're grounded. No playing with your friends for a whole week."

"But Mo-o-om," the kid whimpered.

She buckled him in and slammed the door. When she saw Sheila, she nodded at her as if she was part of the tribe. "Kids, huh?"

"Yup," Sheila said. Once they were out of earshot and the mother was behind the wheel, Sheila winked. "Tell me again why you don't want kids?"

He laughed.

Ten minutes later they stood at the foot of a monument on the eastern edge of the downtown core, overlooking the shopfronts on King Street. Statues of a man and a woman made of weathered bronze, both of them emaciated and dressed in rags, with a skeletal girl of about eight or nine clinging her father's leg. Below this, the plaque read In memory of the victims of the Ruby and the families they left behind, during the Great Famine, 1845 – 1850. Go ndéana Dia trócaire orthu.

"Is that Gaelic?" Sheila wondered.

"Fine Gaelic, even," Martin joked.

"I think Sheila's Latin, but I didn't want to argue."

"Probably for the best. I can't remember where the damn grocery store is. I guess it wouldn't hurt to wander until we find it."