Page 77

“I understand, sir,” I say. “You have no reason to listen to me, but I’d like to pay for the things I stole back when I lived here.”

That gets his attention. “Thought you told the police it wasn’t you.”

I meet his eyes. “You and I both know it was.”

He holds the broom still at his side. “You knew we weren’t rich people, running this store,” he says, bitter. “And it might not have seemed like a big deal to you to take what you did—all those tools, that copper wire. What did you do with it?”

“Sold it,” I say simply. “Used the money to get out of town.”

“Why?”

I shake my head. “I was going through some stuff.”

He harrumphs.

“It’s not an excuse. It was wrong.”

“Yep. It was.”

He’s not going to make this easy. And he shouldn’t.

“I can’t take it back, but maybe—” I pull out my wallet— “maybe I could at least pay for it now?”

He looks at my wallet, then back at me.

“And today’s prices,” I say. “Not what they cost when I sold them.”

A pause, then he says, “Fair enough.”

He waves me into the store, and I follow him over to the counter.

“And maybe you take a picture outside with the sign,” he says. “Give your endorsement to my place. My granddaughter’s got us on the internet now, on the TikBook or whatever. She’ll know what to do with it.”

A glimmer of reconciliation.

It’s something.

I nod. “I can do that, sir.” I think about my sponsorships, and I know how much they pay. Somehow, that makes me feel a little better. Like maybe there is a tangible way to make amends for pain I caused.

He writes out a ticket and slides it across the counter. “That good with you?”

I see the number—a fair number for what I took—and I nod and hand over my credit card. “Fine by me.”

He takes it and taps it on the card reader, then holds it out to me.

I reach for it, but he pulls it back for a moment. “You know, you could’ve just gone on denying it. Nobody ever could’a proved it was you. Especially not after all this time.”

“You would’ve known,” I say. “And so would I.”

He hands me my credit card.

The receipt prints, and he tears it off and sets it on the counter with a pen. “There’s honor in that, son.”

“Well, I haven’t been very honorable the last few years,” I say.

“Never too late to change.”

I sign the receipt, set the pen on top, and slide it back. “That’s what I’m counting on, sir.” I hold out my hand. “We’re good?”