He wakes up. No clothes. He left them folded on his backpack. He goes to the laundry. Yanks the clothes from the dryer. His mother drinking coffee at the counter. I thought that could use a wash, she says. He holds his hoodie against his chest, breathing through his mouth to avoid the hideous smell of Tide and lavender dryer sheets. Yeah. Thanks. Dresses in the bathroom. Blue bruise on the side of his thigh. He makes sure everything is in his bag. Flannel and splinter of bone. Safe. Xie, his mother says. Her thin smile, slick with gloss. I thought we could go shopping. Shopping? For clothes. What, he says, no, I don’t need any clothes. My treat, she says, and he sighs. Only if we go to the flea market. But there’s an outlet mall, she says. I don’t want anything new. But that’s what you need. You can get stuff that looks new at a lot of places, he says. And it’s cheap. Fine. Okay. But no holes and no rips or stains or anything that smells. He rolls his eyes, tosses a pillow at her. She shrinks from the pillow as if from a punch. Xie, don’t. Scowling. As if she can’t tell that he’s just playing. Sorry, he mumbles. They walk to the market, jammed with people, stalls, dogs, bikes, the crowds fattened by the holiday. His mother puts on her sunglasses, dipping her head, thin hands shaking. It’s very busy, she says. Mom, it’s fine, he says. Both of them breathless. Sweating. What to do in a crush. If you are being crushed. He herds her onto a side street, marginally quieter. Takes a breath. Oh, this is cute, she says, fingering a flannel shirt. Isn’t this what you wear? In the country? He blinks. Um. And it’s warm, she adds. You can wear it over your T-shirts. No, I just. I wear this. Tenting his fists through the pocket of his hoodie. Well, what do you wear on the days you don’t wear that? No, I wear it every day, he says. Well, it certainly looks that way, Xie. Girls don’t like a ragamuffin, she says, looking through the racks. He digs through a box of jeans, finds a pair he likes. Gray. No holes. His size. Goes to the seller, a young man with hair to his shoulders sitting in a lawn chair, legs crossed, headphones on. Hey, Xie says. Reaching into his bag. I’ll give you some jam for that pair of jeans. The guy guffawing, What’d you say, man? Xie shrugging. It’s good. I made it myself. And the guy reaching a skinny arm toward the jars, examining them. Blackberry, no shit, he says. His mother coming down the aisle with a shirt in her hand. Xie, what are you doing? Just bartering. Bartering? As if he’d said, Selling heroin. The guy grins. Okay, dude. Deal. Taking the jars. Xie slinging the jeans over his shoulder. His mother openmouthed. The guy scooping out a finger of jam. Hey, man, this is incredible. Leaning forward for a high five. Turning toward Ellen. You got anything for me, lady? And his mother putting her wallet back into her purse, saying firmly, No, as if teaching them both a lesson.