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1 I thought we were just going for a drive. Specks of hay drift past the pickup and blow in through the open windows. It’s harvest time but not for us. Rusty heating pipes rattle in the back, along with the shell of a washing machine we picked up yesterday by the side of the road. Dad swerves right and rolls to a halt at the petrol station. “Want anything?” he asks as he fills the tank. Mondays are okay because Benoit is on the cash desk. His boss won’t serve us anymore. Says customers like us cost him money. A truck piled with hay bales thunders past, flaps a bleached-out canvas banner flogging coffee that’s always on special offer round here. The way that stuff smells, you’d swear they ground it up with roofing tiles. “Hiya,” I say to Benoit. A shrill little bell tinkles. “You two aren’t allowed in here,” Benoit fuzzes from his glass booth. His mouth is too close to the microphone. “Told you that last time.” I point at his mike and waggle my hand next to my ear like I can’t make him out. “I said, you two …” I shake my head and waggle some more. The sacks of charcoal piled around his booth make it look like he’s barricaded himself in. Down the aisle, bunches of flowers are dying by the bucketful. I hang around the fridge packed with energy drinks while Benoit tries to keep tabs on me in the fish-eye mirror below the ceiling. The tinkly doorbell goes nuts again. “Benoit!” Dad bellows, like they’re old chums. “I was just telling Brian that you …” “We’ll take one of these, while you’re at it.” Dad grabs a massive chocolate egg from the bargain bin. “Present for his brother.” “Are we going to see Lucien?” Dad presses the price tag to the safety glass. “Fifty percent off, don’t forget,” he says, picking at the big red sticker. “Wait a sec, that can stay on. It’s not like his brother will notice.” “Okay, okay,” Benoit stammers and rings up the discount. “Tie it up nice with a bit of blue ribbon, will you? His brother will like that.” “We can’t wrap discounted items.” “Red’s fine, too.” “Like I said, it’s not allowed.” “You want anything else?” Dad shouts over to me. I shake my head. “Right then, how much do I owe you?” Benoit swallows and peers at his cash register. “That comes to thirty-eight twenty-fi—” “Here you go.” Dad scoops a handful of coins from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and clatters them into Benoit’s tray. “And not forgetting …” He fishes a folded tenner from his jeans pocket and makes a show of smoothing it out. “Now wrap that thing up, will you? Nice and fancy, like.” “I need to count the money first.” “It’s just that we’re in a bit of a hurry.” Benoit nervously starts sorting the coins. Chocolate has smeared the plastic even before we reach the car. Dad strides ahead, blue ribbon fluttering behind him. “Get a move on, Bry.” “Are we really going to see Lucien?” Benoit emerges from the shop. “I’m seven euros twenty-five short.” Dad turns around, but keeps backing toward the car. “Sure you counted right?” “It’s short.” “Nah, can’t be.” Dad pulls his surprised face. “And we need to get a move on, see. His brother’s waiting.” “I’m going to have to write this up.” “Steady on, Benny boy. Is this how you treat your loyal customers?” Dad slows his pace. “I’ll drop by tomorrow with the rest.” “I won’t be here tomorrow.” “Ah-hah,” Dad grins. “But you can make up the difference till next week, right?” As we pull out onto the road, Benoit is still standing by the door. Dad shoots him a friendly wave and tops it off with a thumbs-up. Benoit starts to raise a hand but gives up halfway. “Why are we going to see Lucien?” “About time, I reckoned.” My big brother lives in a bed half an hour’s drive from our caravan. The last time we saw him was when he turned sixteen and the time before that must have been Christmas-ish. I mostly remember him sleeping. When he finally woke up, all he did was stare at the tinsel that danced and shone above the radiator by his window. We never go on Christmas Day or his exact birthday in case we run into Mum. Even now, I catch myself hoping her car’s not parked outside. Beside the main entrance, the boy with the bulging eyes sits there leering at us. His face is mostly forehead, and dark hair spikes up through the gaps in his leather helmet. He looks unforgiving, like he knows this is our first visit in ages. I always get the jitters when we walk through the door, worried Lucien might be angry we stayed away so long, or afraid something has happened to him and nobody thought to tell us. But mainly because this is more Mum’s territory than ours. The white walls are grubby up to hip height, scuffed and dented by wheelchairs, trolleys, and those beds they’re always pushing around. Wheelchairs with all sorts of bits tacked on are parked along the length of the corridor. A bin bag hangs from a trolley piled with trays and plates smeared with food. In a room off to the side, there’s a boy lying on a blue mat, howling at the ceiling. His legs are twisted at a weird angle, like they belong to another body and someone stitched them onto his at the last minute. His arms are outstretched to catch whoever might come crashing through the ceiling tiles. “Bry!” Dad is already at the end of the corridor. “Check this out!” The automatic doors keep wanting to swing shut, but because of where he’s standing they jerk back open. Behind him a statue of Our Lady gestures us to slow down, though everyone here moves at a snail’s pace. “Isn’t that where Lucien’s room is?” A dull wall of plastic sheeting has been stretched across the side corridor. Someone must have opened a door or a window, because the plastic sucks itself hollow with a smack, then rustles back into a bulge. The sound of drilling is coming from the other side. A silhouette pushes the shadow of a wheelbarrow. “Do you think they moved him? For Christ’s sake … Your mum is supposed to keep us posted.” The cellophane around the chocolate egg crinkles in his fist. “Maybe he’s down here somewhere?” We look at names outside random rooms, someone wails behind a door. “Let’s ask at reception.”