Knox squeezed my side as we crossed the threshold. “Ready for the mob?” he asked.
I grinned. “Bring it on.”
We joined the tide of bodies, the noise and the warmth, the living proof that it was possible to build something from nothing and make it last. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t worry about what came next.
I just wanted seconds.
The kitchen at McKenzie headquarters was designed to seat eight, but like everything in this family, it ignored its limits and just kept expanding until someone broke a window or spilled a pot of coffee on the floor.
I ducked under Harlow’s arm as he rotated a tower of pancakes from the griddle to the warming tray. The plate, avintage Pyrex emblazoned with dancing cartoon chickens, was so overloaded I worried it might snap in half.
Harlow caught me staring and grinned, a flash of teeth and dimple, then winked as he set it down with the delicacy of a man handling radioactive material.
“Hungry?” he asked.
I glanced at the pile. “For pancakes or the impending cholesterol spike?”
“Both,” he said, then added, “Save me the maple. You know how I feel about that corn syrup garbage.”
Across the table, Ma was in full general mode, orchestrating the breakfast rush with a wooden spoon and a glare that could curdle cream. “Bo! I swear to the good Lord if you bring one more stray into my kitchen, you’re sleeping in the woodshed! Ransom, put the jam on the table, not in your mouth! Harlow, more bacon, less chatter!”
Bo—Bodean—stood by the coffee maker, pouring for the new kid. The boy looked like he might be plotting his own escape, but Bo had him boxed in, one arm braced on the counter, the other already loaded with a stack of pancakes the height of a small child.
Ransom, ever the agent of chaos, was smearing homemade blackberry preserves across an entire loaf of toast, then folding it into a monstrous sandwich. “Efficiency, Ma,” he argued. “It’s all gonna end up in the same place.”
“That place better not be the bathroom before breakfast is done,” Ma shot back. “Last time you clogged the septic and we spent a week bailing the cellar!”
Sheriff Hardesty, who’d somehow become a regular fixture at these breakfasts, gave Ransom a side-eye and then started laying out place settings with the kind of precision that spoke of a military childhood or a deep, personal fear of Ma’s wrath.
I slid in next to him, topped off his mug, and set down the sugar bowl.
He nodded at me, then muttered, “You keeping these animals in line, Newt?”
“Only by threat of violence,” I replied.
He smiled, dry and genuine. “You’ll make a good McKenzie yet.”
The room was already at max decibel, but when Knox walked in, everything shifted, like someone tuned the volume knob up and the frequency landed right in my bones.
He wore an old T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and a pair of jeans so faded you could read the outline of his keys through the pocket. He didn’t bother with hellos, just made a beeline for the stove, scooped a fistful of bacon, and took a seat at the head of the table.
The others followed his lead. In seconds, every chair was claimed, every elbow fighting for dominance. Even the new kid found a spot wedged between Bodean and Ransom, who immediately started plying him with food and questions about city life.
“Ever shot a gun?” Ransom asked.
“No—well, not a real one—my cousin had a paintball—”
“We’ll fix that later,” said Bo, as if it was both a promise and a threat.
Conversation pinged around the room—debates over irrigation systems, speculation about the next market haul, who was going to win the county fair’s pie contest. Ma, obviously. Occasionally, someone tried to shush the kids under the table, but they just traded bites of pancake and giggled at the grownups’ expense.
I drifted between seats, topping up juice, making sure everyone had what they needed. At one point, Aunt Georgia caught my sleeve, tugged me down to her level, and whispered,“You know, I still remember the first time you came here. You looked like you were gonna bolt at any second.”
I smiled, letting her see that I remembered too, but that those days were gone. “Not anymore,” I said.
She patted my hand. “Damn right.”
By the time everyone had a plate and a drink, the table looked like a Norman Rockwell painting if Rockwell had a fondness for tattoos and catastrophic hair.
