The owner quit scrubbing and stood up straighter. He frowned and inspected Jack. Squinting under white eyebrows. “Well. Come on over and let me look at you.”

Jack held the old man’s gaze and went to the counter and knew he could not mess this up. No matter what. “I can do whatever you need. Sweep, dust, stock shelves. Anything. I’m real reliable too.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” A lie, but it was only off a year.

“Ever had a job?”

“No, sir. But I’d work hard. I swear I would.”

“I expect hard work.”

“Yessir. I’d work hard for you.”

“You’d be liftin’ heavy boxes.”

“I don’t mind. I can lift whatever you need.”

“I don’t take any back talk. None.”

“No, sir.”

The old owner grimaced and looked out the window at the snow. His yellow fingernails tapped the worn marble counter. His beak nose twitched. “Pay’s seven an hour. Off the books. It’s all I’ll do.”

Jack didn’t breathe. “That’s fine.”

Behind the counter a cuckoo clock on the wall chimed six times. The owner scratched his chin. His buried eyes scrutinized Jack, sharp as a crow’s. “Well. You might fit the bill.” He nodded and held out a hand to shake, though his scowling face didn’t change. “Deal.”

Jack blinked. Everything blurred a little. The owner’s whiskered face. The marble counter and the cuckoo clock. Far down in him, where the constant worry paced, he hadn’t thought this would really happen. Finding work. Money was always on his mind. That and food. Work meant money for meals, bills, a new pair of shoes for Matty. Remember this, he thought. Don’t ever forget.

He shook the owner’s hand.

“What’s your name?” the owner asked.

“Jack, sir. Jack Dahl.”

The old man’s fingers slackened. His face twisted to juts and angles. He might have been in pain. “Dahl.”

Jack didn’t move. His insides went tipping sideways, tipping and breaking apart. A sudden feeling of loss thwacked like a mallet against the underside of his ribs—

“You Leland Dahl’s boy?”

Jack just stood there, numbness seeping through him.

The owner yanked back his hand as though bitten. His eyes dug into Jack and went inside to raw, open places. “You are, ain’t ya?”

Jack tried talking but his voice wouldn’t work. On the wall, a mounted deer head watched him.

“I know you.” The owner spat the words. He’d started quivering all over, and Jack thought he might fall. “I know your family.”

The owner shook his head. “I know you.”

“Please. I need this.”

“Get out of my store.”

“I’m not like him.”

“Boy. Your daddy’s a meth dealer and a felon. Your ma’s a drug addict slut. Why would anybody trust you?”