Chapter 1

"You feed strays on my clock, you're out!"

Grant Tulley clamped Opal Vance's wrist and pulled.

His manager's keys slapped against his khakis.

Her faded apron pulled tight against the counter.

She planted her feet on the tile.

Beside her, a barefoot boy began to cry.

He had slipped in from the sleet outside Roscoe's.

Beyond the glass, trucks crawled through the dark.

The clock above the coffee urn read 5:50.

Opal had given him her breakfast and coat.

He had barely touched the eggs.

Now Grant swept them onto the floor.

The plate broke beside the boy's bare heel.

A fork skidded beneath a trucker's boot.

Nobody reached for it.

"That came out of your pay," Grant said.

Opal's right hand hung stiff in his grip.

A white scar crossed its back.

Bronze hung from her half-exposed keyring.

Another broken piece rested against the boy's chest.

He tucked his chin into her coat.

The sleeves covered both his hands.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't apologize for being hungry," Opal said.

Grant released her wrist and caught his collar.

The boy's chin jerked up.

His feet stayed on the floor.

"I'll call CPS."

Then Grant pointed toward the sleet-covered lot.

"And you can find another job."

A woman in a booth lowered her coffee.

The boy looked toward the door.

Walt Purdue set twenty dollars beside his thermos.

The old trucker's fingers stayed on the bill.

"The food's paid for."

Grant didn't look at the money.

Opal looked at his hand.

"Take your hand off him."

Her voice stayed low.

Tears slid down her cheeks.

For a moment, Grant held the collar tighter.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody backed him up.

Grant let go.

The boy drew one shaking breath.

As Opal turned toward him, her keyring slipped.

She caught it against her apron.

Then her eyes stopped on his cord.

The same jagged edge.

The same dark bronze.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Opal sank onto both knees.

Broken eggs lay inches from her apron.

"Can I see that?"

The boy nodded.

She brought his half beside hers without removing the cord.

Her fingers shook as she fitted the edges.

They met without a gap.

One disc.

ETTA ran across the seam.

Grant's pointing hand dropped.

Walt leaned over the counter.

"Whose name is that?"

Opal swallowed.

"My daughter's."

"Where is she?"

"They said she died in a fire."

Her thumb trembled beside the bronze.

"Twenty-three years ago."

The coffee urn clicked behind her.

"I buried a closed casket."

The boy looked from the medal to her face.

"My mama gave me that."

Opal stopped breathing for a moment.

Her free hand hovered beside his sleeve.

"What's her name?"

"Etta."

"What do they call you?"

"Wes."

She steadied her palm beneath the joined halves.

His cord lay loose against her knuckles.

"Where's your mama, Wes?"

"My mama's waiting at the Bluebird. She said her mama threw her away."