There’s a twelve-string acoustic hanging front and center in the window. The finish looks silky, not shiny like mine was, and I can tell even through the glass that it would feel nice to hold. Set into the neck are pearly bits carved into flowers and leaves and a squawking bird. A white paper price tag hangs from one of the tuning pegs, spinning in an air current, not easy to see. I don’t know how much a guitar costs, but I know I don’t have guitar money. My dad bought the one he gave me when he was seventeen. When I was a kid, before it was mine, every time he lifted that guitar from the case, he’d strum it and smile. “That’s why you spring for the big guns, Ape. That’s why.” He saved summer construction job money for two years to buy it. I step closer to the window, tip my head, squint hard, and manage to see $1,849 handwritten in pencil before the tag spins away again. If I added up all the money I’ve made in my whole life, I don’t think it would be eighteen hundred and forty-nine dollars.

A man with a bushy black beard walks up to the guitar and waves at me through the window. “Come in! Come in!” His voice is booming, even though it’s muffled by the glass.

I turn away, pretend I haven’t seen him. Walk fast, head down, as if just looking was a crime. Like my need for that guitar could ooze through my skin and melt the sidewalk. I rub my thumb and ring finger together to feel the callus that will wear away soon. When it’s gone, there won’t be anything about me that’s special anymore.

My face hurts from the cold. I press my palm to my nose to warm it, but my hands are freezing too. I walk to Woolworth’s and order a pretzel and a cup of hot water at the lunch counter so I can thaw out before I walk back to the campground. I eat the pretzel slowly, taking tiny bites, chewing carefully. It reminds me of Margo. I lick my thumb and use it to pick up the big white chunks of salt left on the paper plate. After I get every last one, I pick a quarter from the change on the counter, leave the rest for tip.

I call from the pay phone outside. She picks up on the first ring.

“Margo’s Diner, today’s special is chili con carne.”

I don’t make a sound.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“Can’t say.”

“Hon, you can trust me.”

“You can’t feel bad about not telling people what you don’t know anyway,” I say, because I’ve seen the toll it takes on her when she can’t tell the truth about important things.