You better come for a walk, he said. Dial did not move. Little chat, Trevor insisted, his mouth opening on the left side. The boy watched everything, his throat gone very dry. The mother held up the broken hem, meaning the hundred-dollar bills would fall out if she stood. This money was their life and death; she had made that very clear when they received it from his father’s friends. With money you could pay the pigs, buy a room with a bath, a real hotel. If someone might hurt you, then you gave them something folded. It was just like Grandma paid the janitor, the super, Eduardo, an envelope every Christmas. Do you think they really like you? Can’t walk, suggested Trevor. Uh-huh. Dial’s cheeks were pink as bubble gum. The boy thought, Give him the money. Make him go away. He wished they had found his dad in Sydney but the squat they went to was filled with junkies who did not know his name. He wished his dad would drive into the street, right now. Trevor called, Hey, Rabbitoh. Jean Rabiteau was once more seated on the post office steps, cleaning his fingernails with a silver clasp knife.
