Heartbeat

Начало книги

“LOOKIN’ TO TRADE, KID?” The shopkeeper’s face is scarred; smudges of dirt cross his forehead, a hand-rolled cigarette bounces on his bottom lip with each word.

“You got any oil?”

He reaches under the counter and sets a tiny jar filled with amber liquid on the scarred slab of wood.

“No.” I shake my head. “Motor oil.”

The tiny jar disappears; a new jar with coffee colored liquid takes its place. “What else?”

“Two bolts.”

One thin brow rises in interest. “Bolts? Metal like that’s hard to come by.” He drops an elbow on the counter, rests his chin in hand, taps stained fingertips on a hallowed cheek. “What’s a kid like you wantin’ bolts for?”

Ash drops from the cigarette in a flutter of flakes like snow from old picture books.

“Wheelbarrow needs fixing.”

“Hm.” The shopkeeper reaches behind the counter again. “Still using wheelbarrows these days?”

“Still buying potatoes from the commune down the road?”

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