Flor guesses Dad’s tired of people asking him questions about Mama, and she hopes God will understand. If God is even still paying any attention to them. Instead Flor rides into town with Dad, who has paperwork to do. His office is in the town hall, and except for them, it’s empty. Flor meanders around, twirling chairs, trying out the single jail cell at the back of the building, where Dad sometimes has to lock up tourists too sloshed for their own good. She swings the door shut and sits on the cot, pretending she’s a prisoner. For about fifteen seconds. It’s horrible. Like you’re choking. Or maybe drowning. She bangs the door open so hard, Dad calls, “Whoa!” “I’m going to take a little walk,” she tells him. The only thing open is the Cockeyed Gull, serving Sunday brunch. A stiff wind’s blowing off the bay, but old Violet Tinkiss huddles on the bench out front, Minnie parked at her feet. They’re dressed up for Sunday afternoon in town, with a red ribbon in Violet’s hair and a matching one around Minnie’s neck.
