My eyes slid over to where Nash and Knox were driving Matchbox cars along the steps. I wondered if Pa was including them in his statement. It burnt my hide that he never paid them a lick of attention. Those poor babies’ first words should have been mama or daddy, not Ox. I was pretty sure they thought I was a combination of mama and daddy. I thought I was failing at both.

“I ain’t riding in that thing. I’ll walk if I have to,” Peg sassed, slamming his math book shut.

“We need something that’ll fit all y’all. It was either the limo or the short school bus the county is selling.” Pa’s hands landed on his hips, daring us to talk back.

Oh, the options of transportation . . . Both came with stigmas attached to the vehicle titles.

We gave Peg the final say-so and he all but cussed us for even implying he needed the handicap bus. The one-legged hothead jabbed a finger toward the funeral limo, making his choice, before hobbling inside the house. We were none too happy and understood his frustration.

Unfortunately, Boss didn’t have enough wits about him to drive, so the old Lawson Funeral Home limo, which we renamed the Silver Bullet, became my first vehicle. So much could have been said about me being the designated chauffeur of a barely breathing family, but I didn’t. Only because Peg beat me to it most days.

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Tuesdays after school, rain or shine —and I’m referring to Pa’s moods —I chauffeured the Foster kids to the Truett Memorial Library, where we’d stay until closing. The two-story brick building had originally been a bakery until the founder, Robert J. Truett, decided at age fifty-five to hang up his apron and in doing so, he discovered a new love to take up his time. You see, Truett didn’t actually learn to read until after his retirement. So inspired, he began moving the ovens and pastry racks out and refilling every nook and cranny with books, spending a substantial amount of his savings to do so. It hadn’t served as a bakery in nearly a century, but the aroma of yeast and smoky molasses permeated each and every book housed in the building. You couldn’t help but get a hankering for something sweet and doughy upon cracking one open.