She gave me the change, and I scooped it up, then rested my hand on the small of Jojo’s back as we left. He didn’t jump—just glanced up at me, blue eyes wide and clear, and for a split second, I could feel the tension in him loosen.
The office door closed behind us, glass rattling in its frame. I let my hand linger a second longer, then dropped it to my side.
Jojo exhaled. “You really think she’ll have it on tomorrow?”
“She’s got to. It’s her job.” I scanned the parking lot out of habit. “You do okay in there?”
He nodded, then scuffed his shoe on the curb. “She didn’t like me.”
“Don’t matter. She’s not the one you need to impress.”
He smiled, small and private, but it was enough.
I guided us to the truck, keys already in hand. “Next stop: hardware store.”
Jojo climbed in, clutching the clipboard like a shield. “Can we get a coffee first?”
I grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”
* * * *
The Black Butte Hardware Emporium sat on the edge of town like a combination fallout shelter and feed lot, the only place for fifty miles that still sold nails by the pound and fence wire by the spool. The sign out front was a sheet of painted tin, faded to the color of dried hay.
In the parking lot, a huddle of old ranch trucks and battered Subarus testified to a customer base that knew the value of a dollar and the lifespan of a good carburetor.
Inside, it smelled like fertilizer, engine oil, and the fresh-cut bite of lumber. The aisles were tight, shelving units crammed with everything from roofing tacks to beekeeping kits. It wasthe kind of place where you could buy a live trap and a sack of gummy bears in the same transaction.
I took the battered cart from the entry and handed it to Jojo, who blinked at it like he’d never pushed one before. “We’re gonna be here a while,” I said. “Stick close.”
He nodded, scanning the ceiling as if memorizing the layout, then fell in behind me. I started down the list: fencing staples, baling wire, two rolls of 14-gauge for the pasture line.
The cart creaked under the weight, but Jojo never let it drift or wobble, steering it with the same obsessive focus he brought to cleaning the kitchen.
He moved quiet, but his eyes missed nothing. I saw him run a thumb along the edge of a galvanized bucket, then tap a sack of seed potatoes to see if they were sprouting. In the gardening section, he stopped to read the label on a spray bottle of organic pest repellent, lips moving as he absorbed the fine print.
I made a mental note of it, then doubled back to the appliance aisle.
The store owner, a short, wiry man in a camo vest, met us there. He grinned, revealing two chipped teeth. “You the one fixing up the Steele place?” He said it like he already knew the answer.
“That’s me,” I said.
“Thought so. You got your granddad’s face. Only, y’know. Meaner.”
I almost laughed. “Looking for a stove and fridge. Something basic, reliable.”
He nodded, leading us to a battered lineup of appliances. Jojo hovered at the edge of the aisle, trailing his fingers along the cool enamel of a chest freezer.
“These are all last year’s models,” the owner said. “But we test ’em before we sell. You want propane or electric on the range?”
“Propane,” I said. “Electric’s too finicky.”
He nodded like he approved. “We can deliver and install. Haul away the old if you got one.”
I shook my head. “It’s bare. You deliver?”
“Thursdays. Add it to the tab?”
“Cash.”
