Cal pointed at him.
“There. That’s normal thirteen-year-old behavior. Keep that part.”
Evan sat stiffly beside me the entire drive to Mason Tire.
I knew the place.
I hadn’t been there in years.
But I remembered one particular afternoon perfectly.
Jeremy had been dead four months.
It was February.
Cold.
Rainy.
Our old sedan got a flat.
I drove to Mason Tire thinking I needed a patch.
Twenty minutes later, the owner told me the tire was ruined.
Then he looked at the opposite side.
The second tire was nearly bald.
I could afford one.
Not two.
I remember standing at the counter trying not to cry.
Ten-year-old Evan sat nearby drinking hot chocolate someone had given him.
I asked:
“Can the second tire wait two weeks?”
The owner looked at me.
Then at Evan.
Then said:
“Probably shouldn’t.”
I swallowed.
“I only have enough for one.”
