His curious cavorting lead him soon to a gas station where old men and young men who made mistakes went and pushed the door, the jingling bell and jerking head of the kid behind the cash register enough to bring his shoes inside, giving his shaved red head a cool bath in the store’s flickering fluorescents. He looked at the beef jerky and beer bottles, flicking an unsteady beat on the bags of chips and men’s books that he couldn’t spare a glance for. Eventually he saw the candy bars and sugar beads in an aisle the same as the rest, and sparing not a moment for the careful coaching of his conscience he grasped a delight and, squealing, ran from the register’s yells back into the high noon sun.

Once more in the dry and dusty heat the boy slowed, knowing that men at gas stations care no more about thefts than the people who commit them. The boy slipped back into his jaunty gait, avoiding cracks beneath and branches overhead, and licked chocolate from his lips, wondering how long it would take before he was old.