Thieves I've Known by Tom Kealey

while, but she was looking over at me.
    â€œDaniel,” I said, though she hadn’t asked.
    â€œThe brother,” she said.
    â€œI told you I would,” said Albert.
    She nodded and took her hands from his head, slowly, like maybe she might put them back there again.
    â€œCan I touch you?” she said.
    I looked at Albert, and he just shrugged. I felt like there was maybe a joke being put on me.
    â€œWhere?” I said.
    She smiled. “Right here.”
    I shrugged. “All right.”
    She stepped over and put one of her boots on my shoe, then she pushed back my hair with the tips of her fingers. I looked away.
    â€œCan I turn you into the light?” she said.
    â€œNot too much,” I said.
    â€œJust a little.”
    When she turned me, she pushed my hair back again and lifted my chin up. I had to squint in the brightness.
    â€œYou all right?” she said.
    â€œIt’s strange,” I said.
    â€œYou’re shaking.”
    â€œI’m cold.”
    â€œYou don’t feel cold,” she said. “You’re a beautiful child.”
    â€œI’m not a child.”
    â€œNo,” she said.
    I wanted to get out of that light then, and maybe she sensed this, because she took me out. She let go of me.
    â€œLet’s say we go inside,” she said.
    So we went up into the trailer. I leaned Albert and his chair back and pulled him up the steps. I’d done this many places before. I knew the trick of it. He stared up at me.
    â€œYou’re spooking,” he said.
    â€œSays you.”
    There was a couch inside, two chairs, lampshades. Drapes on the windows. Merrill turned off the spotlight outside, and there was a white candle on a small table, lit, and the red and green lights shining through the glass. I liked the music on the radio. Still slow, but no longer strange. Something familiar, though I could not quite place it. Merrill was in the kitchen, and her steps seemed to follow the music as she walked about. A big map of the country was pinned up on the wall opposite the couch, and I examined it for a moment. Little stars drawn here and there: Fresno and Grand Junction, Boston and Sioux Falls, Portland, both of them. Below, on a shelf, were about a dozen porcelain mice, each of them the same it seemed. Each of them standing with the same hopeful expression—bigeyes—but dressed different, in little felt outfits. A hippie and a surgeon, a nurse and a fisherman. One of them held a butterfly net.
    Merrill called from the kitchen. “Don’t make fun of my mice, Daniel Atkins.”
    â€œI thought they were rats,” I said.
    She looked at me from over the counter. “You can wait outside in the jeep if you want.”
    I looked at Albert, and he gave me a look I couldn’t read. He took a swig off a beer.
    â€œI didn’t mean nothing by it,” I said.
    â€œThen have a seat,” she said.
    I sat down in a chair next to Albert, and he closed his eyes and listened to the music. He started moving his shoulders, his neck. He seemed to be whispering some words, though there weren’t any voices on the radio. I crossed my arms over my chest. I was shivering something terrible.
    â€œI’ve got a whole box of donuts here,” said Merrill. “I think these are going to be good. You’ll have some donuts?”
    â€œSure,” said Albert. He opened his eyes then and reached into his pocket. He took out the roll of money—twenties—and handed it to me. He nodded at Merrill.
    â€œGive it to her?” I said.
    He nodded.
    So I got up and leaned over the counter. I looked at her for a moment. I was scared of her, though I didn’t want to show it. I handed over the money.
    â€œThose are steep donuts,” I said.
    Something young came over her face then. Some sort of pleasant tremor it seemed to me. She had the same expression as when she’d tipped me into the light. She reached toward the money