A door must be open or shut. Cluck opened the Morris Cowley’s passenger side. He watched Lace stare into the truck cab. The look on her face wasn’t fear, the skittishness of a bitten animal, un chat échaudé qui craint l’eau froide. It was suspicion. People always found something they didn’t like about his family. They were Romani. They were French. They were show people. The traveling kind. “Did you think we brought a flock with us everywhere?” he asked. “If you want to know where I get the feathers, we’re gonna have to drive there.” “What’s your real name?” she asked. He laughed. He liked that she wanted to know that before she decided whether she was getting in the truck, but it didn’t mean he was gonna tell her. Everyone called him Cluck. His real name wasn’t any more of her business than her family was his. “Sven,” he said. “No, really. What’s your real name?” “Rupert.” She shook her head and got in. “What’s your real name?” she asked, a last try.
