After we told a policeman, he wanted to know our address so if they found the money they could give it back.

We are between addresses is what my mom told him.

“Ah,” said the policeman. He nodded like he’d figured out a hard math problem.

My parents and the policeman talked for a while. He gave them the address of two homeless shelters where people can sleep at night. The dads go to one place and the moms and kids go to another, he explained.

“No way,” said my dad. “Not happening.”

Robin said, “We are car camping.”

The policeman looked at Aretha, who was licking his shiny black shoe.

He said that no animals were allowed at either shelter.

I asked if that included puppies.

“Sadly,” he said.

I told him my teacher Mr. Vandermeer had pet rats.

“Rats are especially not allowed,” said the policeman.

There are good rats and bad rats, I told him. I said white rats like the ones my teacher had, Harry and Hermione, were very clean animals. But wild rats could make you sick.

Then I told the policeman how Mr. Vandermeer was teaching his rats to play basketball with a teeny ball for a science experiment. Rats are amazingly intelligent.

“Basketball,” the policeman repeated. He looked at my parents like maybe they should be worried about me. Then he gave my mom a little white card with phone numbers on it.

“Social services, shelters, food pantry, free clinic,” he said. “Check back with us about the theft. Meantime, hang in there, folks.”

We were almost to the car when I heard the policeman call, “Hey, Ratman!”

I turned around. He waved me back. When I got there he said, “How’s their jump shot? The rats, I mean?”

“Not so good,” I said. “But they’re kind of learning. They get treats when they do something right. It’s called ‘posi—’” I couldn’t remember. It was two long words.

“Positive reinforcement?”

“Yep!”

“Yeah, I could use some of that myself,” said the policeman.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Give this to your dad,” he said. “But wait until you’re in the car.”

I asked how come I had to wait.

“Because otherwise he’ll give it right back to me,” the policeman said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I know,” he said.

When I was inside the car, I gave the money to my dad. He looked like he was going to throw it out the window.

I thought maybe he was going to yell at me, but he didn’t. He just tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Finally he shoved the bill in his jeans pocket.

“Looks like dinner’s on me,” he said softly.

24

The next day, we dropped my mom at her part-time waitress job. Before she got out of the car, she looked at my dad and said, “We have to apply for assistance, Tom.”

“We’ll be back on our feet before they deal with all the paperwork,” he said.

“Still.”

“Plus we probably make too much money to qualify for help.”

“Still.”

They looked at each other for a few long seconds. Finally my dad nodded.

We went to an office called Social Services to find out about help. My dad filled out lots of forms while Robin and I sat on hard orange chairs. Then we went to three hardware stores, where my dad put in applications for work. My dad grumbled about all the gas we used up. To cheer him up, I said maybe we could feed the car water instead. He laughed a little then.

“Not having enough work is tough work,” my dad told my mom when she joined us in the car after her shift. He took a deep breath and blew it out hard, like he was facing a birthday cake with too many candles.

“Dad?” I said. “I’m kind of hungry.”

“Me too, buddy,” he said. “Me too.”

“Almost forgot,” my mom said, reaching into her tote bag. “I grabbed some of the bagels that the chef was about to throw out.” She pulled out a white paper sack. “They’re pretty stale, though. And they’re pumpernickel.”

“Well, that’s a start,” said my dad. He stared out the window. After a moment, he clapped his hands. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road. Guess I can’t stall any longer.”

My mom touched his shoulder. “Are you sure about this, Tom?” she asked. “I get my paycheck tomorrow. We could go to the food pantry. Or the shelter.”

“Nope. I got this.” He smiled, but it didn’t look like a real smile to me. “I’d rather do a little performing than stand in another endless line at some office, waiting for a handout.”

We drove to the back of the restaurant. My dad found a nice clean box in the Dumpster.

“Are you making the begging sign?” I asked him. He’d been talking about it off and on with my mom since our money was stolen.

“Given that I’ll be singing for our supper,” he said as he tore the box into pieces, “I prefer to call it a request for gratuities.”

“What’s a gratuity?” I asked.

“A tip. Money you give someone like a waiter,” my mom said. “When we were young, your dad and I used to be street performers, before we had regular gigs. Lots of musicians do it.”

“I’ve got this down to a science,” said my dad. “First off, you need a cardboard sign. Then you need a busy intersection. The best corners have long stoplights.”

“It might not hurt to take Aretha,” my mom said.

“People love dogs,” I told my dad. “I bet you’ll make a lot more money with a dog.”

“Can I borrow a marker, Jackson?” my dad asked.

I handed him my blue marker. “That guy on the corner by Target? He has a puppy.”

My dad studied a cardboard rectangle. “No prop puppies.”

“Write ‘God Bless,’ at least,” said my mom. “Everybody writes ‘God Bless.’”

“Nope. As it happens, I have no idea what God is up to.”

My mom sighed.

My dad scribbled something on the cardboard, like he was in a hurry to be somewhere else. He held up the sign and asked what we thought.

I didn’t answer right away. In second grade, my dad got a D in penmanship, which is how you make your letters. He did not improve with age.

“What’s it say?” I asked.

“‘THANK YOU.’”

“Looks a lot like ‘THINK YOU.’”

He shrugged. “Even better.”

25

We drove to a busy corner and parked next to a Starbucks. It was a cool-and-rainy kind of day.

“Are you sure about this?” my mom asked. “Let me join you.”

“Won’t be the first time I’ve played an outdoor concert,” my dad said. “And you can’t come with me. Someone needs to stay with the kids.”

We waited in the minivan, watching him as he crossed the street. He had his sign and his guitar, but no Aretha.

My dad stood on the lane divider by the left-hand turn signal. He propped his THANK YOU sign against his open guitar case. We couldn’t hear him singing. There was too much traffic.

“He needs to make eye contact,” my mom said.

The light turned red and a line of cars formed next to my dad. Someone beeped his horn, and my dad looked over. A driver in a taxi passed him some money.

The next time the light was red, a driver in a pickup truck gave my dad coins. When the light turned green, people mostly just passed by, their eyes on the road ahead. But a few smiled or nodded.

Red. Green. Red. Green. The hour wore on. When he climbed back into our van, my dad smelled like car exhaust. He passed my mom a handful of wadded-up bills and some coins. “Seven lousy bucks and change.”

“It’s really starting to come down,” my mom said. “People don’t like to open their windows when it rains.” She gazed at the wet dollars. “We could try up by the mall. Maybe it’s just a bad corner.”

My dad shook his head. “Maybe it’s a bad idea.”

“We need the rain,” I said. “Because of the drought and all.”

“Good point,” said my dad. “Let’s look on Jackson’s bright side.”

After a while, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We drove to a park so my mom and Robin could get some fresh air. She said Robin was going stir-crazy.