Lice Peeking shrugged. “Say I was to help you-what's in it for me?”

Dad had warned me that Lice Peeking wasn't accustomed to doing something simply because it was decent and right. He'd predicted that Lice Peeking might demand something in return.

“We don't have much,” I said.

“Aw, that's too bad.” He made like he was playing a violin.

I knew money would be tight at our house as long as Dad was in jail-my mother only works part-time at the law firm, so the pay isn't so hot.

“What about my dad's truck?” I asked. “It's a '97 Dodge pickup.” Giving it up was my father's idea.

“No, I already got wheels,” Lice Peeking said. “Anyway, I'm not s'posed to drive on account of they yanked my license. What else?”

I thought of offering him Dad's fishing skiff, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was a cool little boat.

“Let me talk to my father,” I said.

“You do that.”

“Will you at least promise to think about it?”

“You listen here,” Lice Peeking said. “What do I care about baby sea turtles? I got my own daily survival to worry about.”

He pointed to the door and followed me out. I was halfway down the steps of the trailer before I got up the nerve to ask one more question.

“How come you don't work for Mr. Muleman anymore?”

“Because he fired me,” Lice Peeking said. “Didn't your old man tell you?”

“No, sir, he didn't.”

To keep from wobbling, Lice Peeking braced himself with both arms in the doorway. His face was pasty in the sunlight, and his eyes were glassy and dim. He looked like a sick old iguana, yet according to my dad, he was only twenty-nine. It was hard to believe.

“Ain't you gonna ask why I got canned?” he said. “It was for stealin'.”