"There are," Hollis agreed. "I'll tell you what, though. I'm an old man and I've got a bad heart, and the doctor told me today I ought to take it easy. So I think I'm going to sit a while. Let the rain let up. Maybe have another piece of pie." He drank his own coffee. "Maybe two."
Dale looked at him. Hollis looked back.
"That kid's been telling stories," Dale said quietly. Not loud enough for Renée to hear. Barely loud enough for Hollis. "Kids tell stories. He's got a big imagination. Ask anybody. Draws pictures of planets. Talks to himself."
"I haven't heard any stories," Hollis said. "I've just been eating my supper."
"Good," Dale said. "Keep it that way." He put a five on the counter, ignoring Hollis's offer, and got up off the stool. He was almost as tall as Hollis and twenty years younger. He put his cap back on. He looked toward the kitchen door one more time, and then at Renée, and he gave her a smile that did not get anywhere near his eyes.
"Night, Renée," he said. "Tell your boy I said hey."
The bell rang over the door. He went out into the rain and crossed the lot and got into the passenger side of the gray truck, and the door shut, and the truck sat there.
* * *
Renée was at Hollis's elbow before the bell stopped ringing. She had a coffee pot in one hand and her face was the color of the coffee filters.
"What was that," she said. It was not a question. "What the hell was that? Where's Toby?"
"In the kitchen with Ferris," Hollis said. "He's all right. Sit down a minute."
"I'm not going to sit down. You tell me what's going on with my kid right now, or I swear to God—"
"Renée." He said it the way he'd learned to say things in prison, low and even, the voice you use to keep a room from going off. "I'm going to tell you. All of it. But you need to hear it from him, and you need to hear it sitting down, and you need to not look out that window while you do. Because they're watching this window. You understand me? They're watching to see what you do."