Chapter 1

"She's ready, Margo. He isn't."

Dean said it in my own kitchen with my father's truck keys already in his hand, and he said it in front of Bree, who was standing in the doorway in her good boots with her purse on her shoulder, waiting to be taken.

My son is fifteen and a half. My husband was about to teach his ex-wife's daughter to drive in the truck my father left me.

"Theo's had four weekends," Dean said. "You gave them all back."

I know exactly how many of everything. I count when I am afraid.

Bree looked at the floor. She had the grace to do that much.

Four Saturdays ago, rain had found the loose flashing above the garage. Three Saturdays ago, my son had woken with a fever. Two Saturdays ago, my husband's shop had needed both of us because a mechanic had gone home sick. Last Saturday, I had slid beneath the truck and found the stubborn bolt sweating rust.

Each time, I had promised my son the next weekend. This was the next weekend.

"Give me the keys."

My husband closed his fingers around the ring. The brass tag struck his wedding band with a small, bright click.

"She asked first."

"My son has been asking for a month."

His ex-wife's daughter shifted her purse higher. She was seventeen, old enough to hear the arithmetic and young enough to wish she couldn't.

My husband nodded toward the garage. He had checked the tires before breakfast and cleared his coffee cup from the passenger side. Everything was ready except the person I had promised would sit behind the wheel.

He had an answer waiting for the weather, the fever, the shop, and the bolt. He could take Bree around the empty feed-store lot today. My son could have next weekend. The truck would still be there.

"You don't get to give away his turn."

The words came out quieter than I meant. My thumb pressed into the crescent scar beside my forefinger, the one my father's wrench had left the first summer I was strong enough to pull against him.

My husband set the keys on the counter between us. He did not let go of them.

"Then tell him you're ready."

I looked through the open kitchen door at the garage. The truck sat under its gray cover, long hood aimed at the closed door. I had cleaned its windows, changed its oil, and kept its tires off the concrete through twenty-six winters. I had not driven it out once.

My palm dampened. I wiped it on my jeans before anyone could see.

Upstairs, a drawer opened. Bree had slipped away while we stood over the keys. My husband took her silence for preparation and mine for another delay.

I reached across the counter and put my hand over the key ring. The metal was warm from his palm.

"Theo goes first."

My husband studied my hand. He did not laugh or call me foolish. That would have been easier to answer. He only loosened one finger, then tightened it again, patient with me in the way a man is patient when he believes time will prove him right.

Footsteps crossed the floor above us. I could have promised next weekend a fifth time. The familiar words rose as far as my teeth, and I held them there.

Bree came down wearing the boots she saved for good days. My husband turned toward her.

"Ready?"