"That truck is sixty-two thousand dollars, Grandpa. What's your pension, eighteen hundred a month?"
Chad Morrow said it loudly enough for the customers near the entrance to hear. His expensive watch glittered beneath the showroom lights, and he wore the amused expression of a man who believed the whole room had been built for his entertainment.
In front of him stood an elderly customer in a weathered brown jacket, one hand resting against the back of a chair. Behind the glass, a new red pickup gleamed beneath a carefully arranged display of American flags.
The old man did not answer right away. He looked at the truck, then at the younger man's reflection in its polished door, and finally at a woman standing by the reception counter. She was watching the confrontation with an expression of unmistakable worry, and the old man noticed that worry more than he noticed the insult. He had come into the dealership expecting to learn something about the people who worked there, but he had not expected to learn so much before lunchtime.
"You could save your whole life, Pops, and still not afford the tires," Chad continued. Someone near the coffee machine gave an uncomfortable laugh, which was all the encouragement he needed. "Maybe you should ask for directions to the bus stop instead."
The older man slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, where a folded envelope pressed against his fingers. He had carried that envelope through winters, illnesses, and more difficult days than this, though its contents had changed over the years. He did not pull it out yet. There were still a few things he wanted to understand.
Six hours earlier, Frank Hayes had stood in the narrow kitchen of the house he had owned for forty-one years, listening to the coffee maker struggle through its morning routine. At seventy-six, he moved more slowly than he once had, but he was still straight-backed and capable of reaching the high cupboard without asking for help. He wore a plain white shirt, dark work pants, and the old brown jacket his wife, Ellen, had repaired so many times that several seams carried thread of different shades. On the table lay a photograph of a twenty-four-year-old man smiling beside a military transport truck.
The young man's name was Benjamin Hayes, and he was Frank's grandson. Ben had called from his base two nights earlier to say he would be home before the end of the month, discharged after several years of service and trying to decide what the rest of his life should look like. He had sounded cheerful, but Frank recognized the uncertainty beneath the cheerful words. People leaving one life for another often sounded like that, as though they were trying not to burden the people waiting for them.
"You still have that old red truck?" Ben had asked during the call. "The one Grandma used to say was louder than a marching band?"