The morning of the Harvest Festival, Pine Hollow wakes up loud.
I'm at the bistro by five, prepping three hundred individual tasting portions of roasted squash with sage brown butter. My hands move on autopilot. Dice. Toss. Season. The kitchen smells like autumn distilled into its purest form.
Maya crashes through the back door with a clipboard and manic energy.
"The pie tent's set. The band's running late but they'll be here by noon. Farmer Hank just delivered six crates of heirloom apples and he's already arguing with the goat wrangler about parade order."
"There's a goat parade?"
"There is now." She grabs a spoon, tastes my squash, nods approval. "Ivy added it last night. Something about showcasing livestock heritage and community charm."
Of course she did.
"Where is she?"
"Farm booth setup. She's been there since four."
I check my watch. The festival opens in three hours.
My phone chimes. A text from Ivy.
Need you at the main pavilion. Generator issue.
I wipe my hands. Leave Maya in charge of the tasting portions.
Outside, Pine Hollow has transformed.
The town square is a maze of white tents and hand-painted signs. Bunting in orange and gold stretches between lampposts. A small stage hosts a sound check, fiddles squealing. People haul tables, hang lights, argue cheerfully about booth placement.
The energy is electric.
I find Ivy crouched beside a sputtering generator, her braid falling over one shoulder, grease smudged on her cheek.
"It's the fuel line," she says without looking up. "Third time this month. I told Mayor Elsie we needed a backup."
"Did you bring tools?"
She gestures at an open toolbox. I kneel beside her. Our shoulders bump.
The generator coughs. Dies.
"Fantastic," Ivy mutters.
I undo the fuel filter. Gunk clogs the mesh. Five minutes and some improvised cleaning later, the generator roars to life.
Ivy sits back on her heels. Exhales.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She looks at me. Really looks. The morning sun catches the freckles across her nose.
"This is actually happening," she says.
"It is."
Around us, the festival builds itself. A pie contest table appears. Kids shriek as someone inflates a bouncy castle. The goat wrangler leads a small parade of contestants past the main pavilion, and one of them bleats directly into a microphone.
