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“Okay,” Harry said.

After being so clever, Harry couldn’t think of what to say about going to war. He just wanted the guy to stop staring at him. He turned back to the window.

It was late morning by the time they got to the Pierce house. The younger cop walked Harry to the door. It was a Sunday, so Mr. Pierce was home because the store was closed. He put on a big, smiley Welcome and God bless you act in front of the cop so he would think everything was good and kept it up even when the cop told him that his car was undrivable and had been towed to the police garage in Hollywood.

But Harry knew things would change once the cops were gone.

Mr. Pierce signed a piece of paper that the cop had on a clipboard. Harry didn’t know what it was. It was like he was some kind of delivery from the postman that needed to be signed for.

After the cops left, Mr. Pierce locked the front door and turned to Harry.

“At least you weren’t hurt,” he said. “Let me see your hands.”

Harry held them out, knuckles up. The tattoos were almost fully healed now and Mr. Pierce could read the blue ink.

“‘Hold fast,’” he said. “What does it mean?”

“The sailors say it’s for holding fast to ropes and stuff,” Harry said. “You know, like when the seas get rough in life and you have to hold on to whatever you — ”

Mr. Pierce’s arm shot out like a striking snake and he backhanded Harry, his knuckles hitting high on his cheek and eye. Harry fell against the wall, knocking the hanging crucifix askew.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Mr. Pierce said. “Now you’re marked. It’s a sin.”

He walked down the hall toward the living room. Harry waited until he was a safe distance ahead to follow.

In the living room, Harry saw two empty banana boxes from the store sitting side by side on the floor. He easily recognized the contents. It was all his belongings. One box with folded clothes, the other with his books, his Dodgers cap, and his left-handed catcher’s mitt. Nesting in the mitt was the baseball Vin Scully had signed and given to him at the Celebrity Day at MacLaren. He knew what the boxes meant, but Mr. Pierce told him anyway.

“You’re going back,” he said.

Harry nodded. He wondered if he had done the whole thing — stolen the car, crashed it into the wall — because he knew deep down that he would be sent back to MacLaren. That he wanted to be sent back.

“Then give me my money,” he said.

“No, you get no more money,” Mr. Pierce said.

He used that tone like he was delivering a lesson. Like he was a preacher or a teacher, not the manager of the produce section at the Mayfair.

“They’re on their way from Public Assistance,” he said.

He started walking toward the kitchen. Harry grabbed him by the arm and turned him until they were face-to-face. He could feel his eye beginning to swell but he acted like he didn’t notice and didn’t care.

“It’s my money,” he said. “You get half and I get half. I want what’s mine.”

“No, you crashed my car,” Mr. Pierce said. “And now you have to pay for it. If there’s any left over, I’ll send it. If that’s not okay with you, then I’m happy to change my mind and call the police back.”

They stared at each other for a long angry moment, then Harry looked down.

“Good,” Mr. Pierce said. “Now get out of my way.”

Harry took a step to the side and Mr. Pierce shouldered by him.

“Take your things and wait outside for the Public Assistance people,” he said as he passed. “And keep your hands in your pockets to hide that devil’s ink.”

Harry watched him enter the kitchen.

“Where’s Mrs. Pierce?” he asked.

“It’s Sunday,” Mr. Pierce said. “She’s waiting for me at church.”