“He’s held that secret in his head for forty years,” she whispered.

“He believes everybody in this town remembers what was on his plate.”

I looked down at the red check mark beside the name of that eight-year-old boy.

“Does Principal Vance know this even exists?” I asked.

Irene shut the tin with a dry metallic click.

“Nobody knows but the boy who ate the bread and the woman who paid for the cheese,” she said.

At seven thirty I got to the garage to give back the spare shop key I’d carried home in my coat pocket.