The Tires in the Front Window

The paper

Gerald ran a good invoice. I will give him that. He printed his shop name across the top and his license number, and below that, in a neat column, he listed what he claimed to have done.

Four Hankook tires, size 235 65 R17. Mount and balance, four. New valve stems, four. Disposal of old tires, four. The total was six hundred and forty dollars, and next to the tires it had a line I had never noticed on any receipt in my life.

A long string of letters and numbers, one for each tire. When I looked it up on my phone, standing there in the driveway, I learned that shops are supposed to record the serial number of every tire they sell so the maker can reach you in a recall.

It is the tire’s fingerprint. It is stamped on the rubber, and it is written on the invoice. If one does not match the other, one of them is lying.

I walked around the van with the paper in my hand and read all four sidewalls. Not one of them matched. The tires under my children were the same four I had been told were gone.

Emma was still crouched by the front wheel. “Are you mad at Grandpa?” she asked.

“No,” I said, and I was surprised that it came out so calm. “I’m just checking his math, honey.”

“He’s good at math,” she said. “He does it in his head.”

“I know he does.”

I sent her inside to wash her hands. Then I stood in the driveway for a long time and tried to think about what a man like Gerald could possibly have done with four brand new tires that he had already been paid for.

I had a feeling I knew. I did not want to be right.