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slapped Ingrid across the face, something no one had ever done, and she’d told him she’d never speak to him again. Her own brother. Words had come out of her mouth that she didn’t mean, and then she couldn’t take them back. She could hear herself saying them. She’d said she’d never darken his door again. And she could see the plate spinning across the room, knowing it would hit the refrigerator. Even in that moment she’d wanted it to fly back to her before it broke into pieces.
    I said all those things, she said.
    I hated you then. But we don’t have to go over all that.
    No, I’d rather not.
    It’s done. She’s gone – that’s the thing.
    Ingrid didn’t have enough gas to get from Halifax to Antigonish. She stopped somewhere after Truro, just before New Glasgow, at a gas station on top of a hill. One moment she was on the ramp, with the gas station in the distance, a castle in a fairy tale, and the next moment she was driving around, driving around, in a circle, first to the Self Serve, where there were too many cars, and then around again, where she tried to squeeze into a spot at a pump between a pickup and an old Pontiac. She couldn’t do it; she couldn’t reverse the car into the spot. People were getting in and out of their cars, slamming doors, and a radio was turned on full blast. Everything gleamed in the heat. She couldn’t reverse into the spot. The radio was going full blast. It gleamed.
Baby, if you go
–
    She drove around to the Full Serve. Windows gleamed, fenders gleamed.
Baby
.
    When she stopped the car and got out, it was like stepping into an oven. A young man appeared; he’d already taken the filter gun out and he was just about to put the nozzle in the tank of her car. He said something to her; his mouth opened and closed. Everything wavered in the heat.
    He spoke again.
    Fillerup?
    She nodded.
    Regular, Premium?
    What was he saying? He said it again.
    Regular, she said. Regular. And some oil, maybe. I don’t know.
    He shoved the nozzle in the gas tank and went around to lift the hood and check the oil.
    Her eyes were streaming and she took off the sunglasses to wipe them. She looked away from him, to the other side of the hill, where a dead elm stood. It was an old woman holding her arms up to the sky.
    My daughter died today, she told him.
    He had just raised the hood, and now he looked around it. She could see the greasy rag he used.
    My daughter, she repeated. She died today.
    He looked at her as if she was crazy, but then he must have seen that she was crying.
    Would you like a paper towel? he asked.
    He got her some paper towel. When he handed it to her, all bunched up, she saw his hand was grimy. The length of greasy rag was in his other hand and he wiped his thumb with it. He was young, younger than Damian. His face was tanned; he had a wispy little beard. But there were no lines in his face at all.
    I’m sorry about your daughter. There was a furrow between his brows.
    He went back to check the oil, then he put down the hood carefully, dropping it with a practised hand an inch above the catch.
    I could get you something, he said, glancing at the coffee shop. Do you want something?
    No. Thank you –
    She didn’t know what to do with the paper towel so she handed it back to him and he took it, in that grimy hand of his. He tossed it in the bin beside the pumps. It made an arc and dropped down, perfectly, exactly where he’d planned it would go. The phone had dropped on the floor and something had broken.
Damian, what’s wrong?
A terrier went yapping across a lawn. The dog was alive. This boy was alive.
    No problem, he said.
    He stood there, hands at his sides, until she realized he was waiting. She got out her wallet and gave him four twenty-dollar bills.
    I’m really sorry, he said, as he took them. He gave two of the bills back to her. I’ll get your change. Your oil’s fine.
    My what?
    Your oil. I checked it.
    Good. Thank you.
    She got in the car and started it,