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setting out for the gas station where the snowplough was kept, and a hot beef sandwich with gravy and fries at Harper’s restaurant when he finished, regardless of the time of day. There were two half-width booths at the back of the restaurant, one of which was usually empty. If not, he’d spread his newspaper over the table in one of the larger booths to deter company. He’d made a point of never getting into conversation with either of the waitresses; apart from giving his order, which he no longer had to do as they both knew what it was, he didn’t have to say anything but thank you. The hot beef sandwiches were good, as were the fries, so in pretty much every way it beat eating with his family. In the evening he’d make himself a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of coffee. On Sundays Harper’s was closed, so on Sundays he lived on coffee and sandwiches.
    “She was busy with the baby,” Adam whispered.
    “You can talk normally,” Tom said irritably. “He can’t object to that. Didn’t you have any lunch, then?”
    “Cornflakes,” Adam said, slightly louder. Then he added, “But the milk tasted funny.”
    Tom took the milk bottle out of the refrigerator, sniffed it, walked over to the sink and poured it down the drain. He went back to the fridge. Inside was a packet of lard, an egg box with two eggs in it, one shrivelled carrot and a plate with a bowl inverted over it, which turned out to contain a highly suspect lump of meat. Tom dumped the meat into the garbage bag under the sink. The meat smelled bad and the garbage bag smelled worse; he quickly closed the cupboard door again. He looked around the kitchen for any further traces of food. The counter was cluttered with unwashed dishes and saucepans and old papers and half-empty glasses and cups and somebody’s shoes. The only food he could see was the box of cornflakes—empty, it turned out—and a jar of peanut butter so well scraped out there was nothing left but the smell. The bread bin was empty as Peter had so loudly observed.
    Tom opened the food cupboard above the counter: one can of peas, two cans of Heinz baked beans, one of peaches, one of condensed milk, one of condensed mushroom soup, a carton of Minute Rice, a bag of flour, an open bag of sugar, a box of salt with a built-in spout, a jar of relish and a jar of dried-out mustard. He checked the cupboards under the counter: a box of Quaker Oats. That was it.
    He opened the top cupboards again and took out the two cans of baked beans, then looked around for the can opener.
    “It’s in the sink,” Adam said, whispering again.
    Tom looked down at him. “You haven’t been using it, have you?”
    Adam shook his head but he looked guilty.
    “Well don’t,” Tom said. “It’s dangerous.”
    “Okay.”
    “How old are you, anyway?” Tom asked abruptly, because it somehow seemed relevant.
    “Four and a half,” Adam said. He hauled up his shirt and scratched his belly. He didn’t smell too great, though not as bad as the garbage or the meat.
    Tom thought suddenly, This place is going to hell.
    He urgently wanted to get back to
The Globe and Mail
. He’d almost got to the obituaries, which were one of the best bits—all those people you’d never heard of and had now discovered just too late.
    How long had it been since their mother had come downstairs and cooked a meal? Since before the baby arrived? He wasn’t sure he’d seen her at all for a couple of days, not even drifting about with the baby in her arms. Maybe there was something wrong with her. It couldn’t just be the new baby; she’d had babies before—eight of them, in fact—and he couldn’t remember the place falling apart with the others.
    Though of course, now that he thought about it, Megan had been here for the others. Maybe she was the one who’d kept things running. But Megan had been gone three years now. She’d flown the coop.
    He went over to the sink. Adam was right: the can opener was in there, along with a