Free Extensions by Myrna Dey Page B

Tommy, who had risen to retreat to his bed warmed by his little brother, sits back down and pours himself more tea. Gomer, draped in his bedcovers, struggles from the couch to join them at the table. His voice is thick. “Dno porridge for bme.”
    Jane serves two bowls, along with the current bread requested, and leaves her little brother for her mother to discipline for a change. From the cloak cupboard she takes a long green woollen cape and umbrella. “I’ll be back whenever Stella’s through with me,” she says, then remembers the letter to post on the cupboard. “I wrote to the others.”
    â€œAgain?” says Mama. “You just wrote last week.”
    â€œIf it’s not sealed, here’s another ten dollars t’ward Catherine’s passage,” says Tommy, pulling a bill out of his shirt pocket.
    Jane’s heart leaps at the prospect. She rushes outside for a welcome gulp of fresh air and rain on the short trail between workplaces. She will correct the amount in the letter at the post office.

BETWEEN THE FIFTH AND SIXTH BLASTS, the foghorn on the Departure Bay ferry turned into my alarm clock. Or maybe it was the fifth or sixth snooze button. I was not aware of the alarm buzzing until my dark bedroom swallowed up Uncle Lawrence standing on the dock; he was still looking sad because we did not stay for supper. Cold toes told me I was badly swaddled in my quilt. I raised my head slowly, then sat up carefully. Nothing. I jumped to my feet. Hallelujah. The disappearance of a headache almost made that skull rattling worthwhile in the first place. Almost.
    When I turned on the light, I saw the identical pictures of Janet and Sara on the night table. But the clock next to them said half an hour to briefing, so I yanked on my jeans and sweatshirt from the floor and grabbed my pants and last ironed shirt from the closet. I’d take a quick shower at work. Times like this made me thankful I had a short haircut that required no curling iron or gel. I used the rails of the staircase to the underground parking lot to propel me downward four steps at a time.
    At the detachment, I was showered and in my uniform in record time and almost crashed into Emile entering the briefing room. He handed me the cup of coffee in his hand. “You look as if you need this more than I do.”
    Our corporal asked if I was feeling better, and I nodded.
    â€œWell enough for a stakeout?”
    I nodded again.
    â€œPut your jeans back on. There’s a video store off Boundary we suspect is a fence for a convenience store in Coquitlam. Hang around and see what you can come up with. Sukhi will go with you.”
    Sukhi smiled, cool and organized already in his plain clothes. We had a couple of hours before the video store opened so once I’d changed, I suggested we get some breakfast. I was so ravenous, Sukhi wondered if I were the same person he had eaten with yesterday. Had only twenty-four hours passed since then? I felt as if I’d been thrown into a cauldron containing Ray, Retha, Wanda, Terry, and Jane Owens, then agitated on one of those paint-stirring machines. Dad was the only one who had not shaken me up.
    When we got back to the car, we had a call to go to a supermarket. We still had time before the stakeout, so we pulled into the parking lot in our unmarked car. It was a monster food store, the kind thieves like best. Especially when no loss preventions officer was on duty and they knew it. We talked to the manager in bulk foods, while Sukhi scooped out a bag of chickpeas. They had their eye on a man who had been coming in twice a day recently. He was a young Vietnamese, spotted by a Vietnamese employee who had a hunch about what he was doing but did not want to confront him without grounds. We agreed to our roles.
    At the moment, the suspect was filling his cart in the canned vegetable section. Sukhi pushed his cart casually behind him. I lingered at the other end of the