“I don’t need your money, Mrs. Hubert.”
She releases the bill and it floats to the ground in front of me. If I don’t put the crutch’s rubber foot on it, it will fly away.
“Buy some duck food, then. The stall is open until five. Don’t feed them any processed bread. It’s bad for ’em.” She closes the screen door and shuffles away. I don’t move until I hear Bob Barker’s voice ring through her tiny 900 sq. ft. box.
Just as I reach the edge of the lot, my dad pulls in. Rolls down his window. “Look at you, up and around. Where you going?”
“Gonna go feed the ducks.”
“I’ve got dinner for you, and your stuff from dispatch.” He holds up my otters. I’m so happy to see them, I snatch them from his hands and kiss them before stuffing them into my pants pocket. Dad snorts at me.
I give him my keys.
