“Where were you that day you came home late?”
He stared at the floor.
“Mrs. Donnelly’s.”
I knew the name immediately.
After Jeremy died, Mrs. Donnelly had picked Evan up from school whenever I couldn’t leave work.
For months.
“What happened to your shirt?”
“Her back fence fell over.”
I stared at him.
“You fixed her fence?”
“I helped.”
“With whom?”
“Her grandson.”
“That is why you were covered in mud?”
He nodded.
“And the money?”
“She wouldn’t take any.”
He sounded disappointed.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I looked down at the map again.
This was not random.
My son had spent six months retracing the year after his father died.
Finding every person he remembered helping us.
Trying to pay them.
With his money.
With his Saturdays.
With labor.
With anything he had.
I drove him away from the tire shop.
