There Will Be Bears by Ryan Gebhart Page B

Dad,” I say, “and I could take this call.”
    “You wouldn’t.”
    I secretly hit IGNORE on my phone and put it up to my ear. “Hello?” I say. “The Swift tickets? Yeah, they’re still available.”
    Ashley opens her wallet. Two bills fall onto my bed. Benjamin Franklin’s face is on the front. “I won’t tell Mom or Dad. But please, please, please, you have to be safe.”
    Before Mom gets back from the store and Dad gets home from work, I’ve found someone to take Jar Jar Newtingston’s old home off my hands. She’s a cute young mom who just bought her eight-year-old son some guppies.
    So it’s official — the saga of Pizza Bear and Booger Bear 5000 has come to an end.
    I don’t want it to hurt, but when she carries the aquarium away, my chest gets that burning sad feeling I’ve been getting a lot lately. It’s like, yeah, Bright’s not my friend anymore so it shouldn’t be a big deal. But he
was
my friend.
    Someday I’ll get over it.
    When I hear the sound of the garage door rumbling open, I go downstairs to meet Dad at the door leading to the garage. “Hey.”
    “Tyson. What’s happening?”
    “Not much. I just rocked Ms. Hoole’s face off.” I show him my test.
    “Hey, nice job, buddy.”
    “So can you take me to the mall? I need to get my costume.”
    An hour later, we’re walking by empty stores and the broken fountain. I used to toss pennies in there when I was a kid and wish that Mom would buy me a Transformer. This place used to be so packed, but now it’s like ancient ruins.
    “Hey, Dad? I was looking online the other day, and have you ever heard of home dialysis?”
    “The machines cost forty thousand dollars,” he says, as if he were prepared for my question. “Plus certified nurses and installation — it’s money we simply don’t have.”
    There’s got to be a better option than a nursing home in another state. But there aren’t any dialysis centers here. There isn’t much of anything here. We have Chipotle and the Bargain Barn, and they’re talking about putting in a Jamba Juice, but I’m not getting my hopes up.
    The costume shop has been cleaned out except for my costume, hanging like a skinned bear and all by itself on the back rack.
    When I go to the cashier and he’s ringing me up, I see the grand total. And I’m short on money.
    The cashier has on a pair of pink bunny ears and painted-on whiskers, a button nose, and a name tag that says KIERNAN . He says dully, “Looks like you’re going to have to take it back.”
    “Here,” Dad says to me. “Give me your money, and I’ll put it on my card.”
    “Dad, you don’t have to do this.”
    “I don’t know why you want this goofy outfit so bad, but if it means that much to you.” He hands the cashier his credit card.
    Wow. Maybe it’s because of the weather or because I got a B on my test, but Dad’s in a good mood. Now’s my chance.
    As we’re walking out of the mall, I casually say, “So Dad, I was thinking, since Gene has his dialysis appointment on Friday, would it be all right if he and I went camping? He only has to go to his appointments once every three days, so he’d be good all weekend.”
    I heard somewhere that liars don’t look you in the eyes and they fidget and scratch their neck. When Dad turns to me, I’m staring right at him with my hands in my pockets.
    “Camping?”
    “Yeah, it’s near Pocatello.” I hand him a printout from my pocket. “Check it out. Gene really wanted to explore the Minnetonka Cave. And there are all types of animals to see, like moose, mule deer, bison, mountain lion, and pronghorn.”
    Thank you, Wikipedia.
    “Camping.” He says it this time like he’s considering it.
    I force down a smile and say, “And if anything does happen to Gene, there are guides all over the place. It’s really good for the old people. It’s the —”
    “Yeah, the Targhee National Forest. Gene took me there when I was a kid. Beautiful country.” But then he sighs. “I