automatically caught and steadied me in his one-armed grip. "You haven't changed much. How's Renée?"
"Mom's fine. It's good to see you, too, Dad.
I only had a few bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for Washington. Mom and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it was still scanty. It all fit easily into the trunk of the cruiser.
"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he answered when we were strapped in.
"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed to "a good car for you."
"Well, it's a truck actually. A Chevy."
"Where did you find it?"
"It fell off the back of another truck."
"Really?"
"No. Do you remember Billy Black, down at La Push?" La Push is the tiny Indian reservation on the coast.
"No."
"He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted.
That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful, unnecessary things from my memory. Things like ill-conceived summer fishing trips. And Indians.
"He's in a wheelchair now." Charlie continued when I didn't respond, because I was so busy thinking about how much worse a crippled Indian was than just a normal one, "so he can't drive anymore, and he offered to sell me his truck cheap."
Score! Maybe crippled Indians weren't so bad after all.
"What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression that this was the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask, would never ask, would never even think of asking.
He rubbed at the spot where his left arm would have been, pensive. "Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine—it's only a few years old, really. Young at heart."

7

Chapter 1

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