Chapter 92

But my dad was at the store, just like he’s been every day of my life from eight in the morning until eight at night. I braced myself as we walked through the back storeroom and out into the front of the store, where he was counting the cash drawer at the counter: my dad named me Walter after his favorite uncle, and refuses to call me anything else

He looked up from his counting when he heard us come out of the storeroom. “Hey, boys.” Then, sure enough: “Walter, glad you’re home, son. Good to see you.” He shook my hand and gave me one of those half-hugs that men like my dad in places like Ogallala give each other.

“Hi, Dad. It’s good to be home, actually. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Fuckin’ right it has,” Bertie interjected, pulling out a spiral notebook and standing next to our dad, jotting down numbers as, together, they accounted for the day’s cash and closed out the credit card receipts.