Slumping heavily down on the folding plastic seat inside the hut, Sam bent forward and held his aching head in his hands. A brain tumour could be treated. He just needed a scan, that was all. Something to look in there and see what was wrong. Because Sam now admitted to himself something was very wrong indeed. Would he have to go to the hospital in Calgary, he wondered. What if he never came out? It was time to tell Katie just how bad things were. He sat up. If that guy in the yellow suit did what Sam suspected he was going to do, he might have to tell Katie they were short of one salary, too. What did that matter, compared to the possibility that her husband, Jess and Billy’s father, might be dying of a brain tumour?

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been in trouble for losing his rag at a moron. His own mouth had been his biggest enemy back in the days of driving for Fox Line. The depot manager, Jim Henderson, had often pulled Sam in and had a word in his ear. He was a nice guy, Jim. Gave Sam the job in the first place. Meant well. But he didn’t know what he was talking about.

There had been that incident when a passenger who’d called Sam chief complained to the company about the colourful response he received in front of his children.

Chief. The Canadian answer to the American south’s boy. At least the black American had done something about that. Let’s see a Beverly Hills housewife pull over in the Mercedes and call a black twenty-year-old man boy. No chance. Black Americans scared the shit out of the whites. The Canadian Indian scares no one. You could call him chief and he’ll just run back to his reserve and sulk. Well, unless you were Sam.

Jim had sighed when Sam answered his call and entered the office. ‘You have to realize that sometimes people don’t mean what they say, Sam. They don’t mean to be hurtful.’

‘Uh huh.’

Jim hardened. Or tried to. ‘Okay, even if they do, the customer is always right.’

‘Specially if the driver isn’t white, huh?’ Sam’s face was dark and inscrutable.

‘Look. If a customer lashes out and you’re a bald guy, he’s gonna say, Hey! Bald guy! If you’re fat he’s gonna say, Hey! Fatso! So you’re an Indian. What do you think they’re gonna say when they want to insult you?’

‘Beats me. I got all my own hair and I weigh a hundred and eighty-two pounds.’

‘Quit acting up, Sam. I know what it’s like for you. Just cool it.’