Cork scraped the grill, emptied and cleaned the ice milk machine, cooled and poured out the fry oil, wiped down the prep areas, and swept the floor. He took the cash from the register and turned out the lights. In the back, he sat at the desk, counted the day’s take, and made entries in his ledger. Finally he prepared a night-deposit slip, bundled the money, and shook Stevie gently awake.

“Come on, buddy. Time to hit the road.”

Stevie was slow in getting up.

“Want a ride?” Cork asked.

Stevie gave a sleepy nod.

Cork turned his back to his son and knelt. Stevie wrapped his arms around Cork’s neck and his legs around Cork’s waist.

“Up we go.”

He carried Stevie piggyback outside and locked the door behind them. By the time he got his son settled in the Bronco, Stevie was wide awake.

“Are we going home?” Stevie asked.

“First we go to the bank. Then to the store for some cigarettes.”

Stevie seemed bewildered. “You don’t smoke anymore.”

“They’re not for me. After that, how about a walk in the woods?”

Stevie looked at the long shadows cast by the setting sun. “Will it be dark?”

“When we’re done. Do you think the woods are scary when it’s dark?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes so do I. But I’ll tell you what-I promise I won’t let anything happen to us, okay?”

Stevie thought it over, his dark Anishinaabe eyes seriously considering his father’s face. “Okay,” he agreed.

And Cork felt, as he often did, the sweet weight of his son’s trust.

Cork drove north of Aurora, following county roads until he came to a place in the Superior National Forest where a split-trunk birch marked the opening to a foot trail through a thick stand of red pines. He pulled off to the side of the road, locked up the old Bronco, and set off with Stevie through the woods.