Then the laughter starts.
It begins at the back—a snort, a giggle—and spreads forward like a wave. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, absolutely losing it. Duck’s triumphant expression falters.
“What? What’s so funny?”
Someone in the front row turns their phone around to show him. Duck squints at the screen, then slowly turns to look at the banner behind him.
The crowd absolutely loses it.
Duck stares at the typo for a long, silent moment. Then he turns back to the crowd with an expression of pure, deadpan acceptance.
“Well, shit.”
The laughter doubles.
Someone in the back yells, “You’ve got my vote!”
“That’s what I like to hear!” Duck is fully rolling with it now, leaning into the disaster. “Listen, I may not be able to spell, but I can damn sure lead. And unlike my banner, my commitment to this town is one hundred percent accurate.”
The crowd roars its approval. Phones are recording. This is going to go viral.
Stone appears at my elbow, his eyes scanning the crowd even as he’s fighting back a smile.
“He’s going to win because of this,” I say.
“Probably. Nothing like a good typo to humanize a candidate.” His hand finds mine. “You doing okay?”
“I’m great.” And I am. Surrounded by people I’ve come to care about, watching democracy in action, feeling like part of something bigger. “This is fun.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand. “Stay close. FBI raid is set for midnight. I want us back at the clubhouse well before then.”
“Yes sir, Mr. President.”
“Brat.” He slaps my ass.
I laugh, leaning into him, feeling safer than I have in weeks. The rally is winding down now, Duck still working the crowd, shaking hands and posing for selfies with the typo banner. It’s the kind of wholesome chaos that makes Stoneheart feel like home.
“I need to use the restroom,” I tell Stone. “Too much lemonade.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll come with you.”
“To the bathroom?” I raise an eyebrow.
“To the café.” He nods toward Rosie’s, the newly opened cafe sits on the corner of the square. “I could use a coffee.”
I don’t argue. After everything we’ve been through, I understand his need to stay close.
Rosie’s is quiet compared to the bustling square—most people are outside for the festivities. The bell chimes as we enter, and Stone guides me toward the counter with a hand on my lower back.
“A black coffee,” he tells the barista—a college-aged girl I don’t recognize. He glances at me. “You want a drink?”
“A bottled water would be great. Do you have a bathroom?”
“Restroom’s down the hall on the left,” the girl offers.
I squeeze Stone’s arm. “Two minutes.”
“I’m timing you.”
