Knox was posted at the booth’s edge, arms crossed over his chest like he was guarding the Mona Lisa instead of cucumbers. He caught me watching him and gave the barest nod, a signal that said I see you, kid, keep it up. Ransom, as usual, had gone AWOL—rumor was, he’d wandered over to the artisanal soap tent to score free coffee.
I envied that ability, the way the McKenzie boys could just walk through the world like it belonged to them.
I didn’t see Quiad at first, but I felt him—like a shift in air pressure, or the magnetic pull of a thunderstorm miles out. It was the kind of sense you develop when the man you love makes a habit of showing up exactly when you need him. I pretendednot to look for him, tried to focus on restocking tomatoes, but my head kept swiveling up to scan the crowd.
He appeared next to me just as I was reloading the sample tray, his hands already moving to take the basket from mine.
“Take a break,” he rumbled, voice low enough only I could hear. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks, babe,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Love the vote of confidence.”
He set the basket down, then, in an almost invisible gesture, pressed the back of his hand against my lower back. The contact was brief, but it recharged me better than a shot of espresso. He looked me over, those brown eyes catching every scab and sunburn, and nodded like he was satisfied.
“You eat yet?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Had a donut.”
He made a noise deep in his throat. “That’s not eating.”
“Says the guy who mainlined black coffee and a Slim Jim for breakfast.”
He almost smiled, but not quite. “Finish your shift. I’ll have lunch ready when you’re done.”
Then he slipped back into the crowd, moving through the press of bodies like a battleship in a flotilla of rubber ducks. I watched him go, my heart doing that dangerous ballooning thing it always did when he was near.
Around noon, the market got rowdy. The pop-up barbecue across the way started flaring up, the smoke curling over and making my eyes water. Bodean, who’d volunteered for “outreach,” wandered by with a fistful of flyers, most of which he’d handed off to girls in cutoff shorts. He beamed at me, winked, and kept moving.
The tomatoes sold out first. I watched the empty basket with something close to pride, then packed up the stems and started stacking the rest of the wares. The change purse felt heavier now,which meant Pa would be in a good mood tonight. Maybe we’d even get beer with dinner.
The old man at the next booth—a cheese guy who looked like he’d fought in at least three wars—leaned over the partition.
“Hey, Levi!” he called. “You got any more of those beefsteak reds? Lady over here is offering double if you can hook her up.”
I checked the box under the table, but it was clean. “Sorry, mister. That’s it until next week.”
He nodded, then leaned in close. “You tell your old man these prices are highway robbery. Back in my day, we traded with honest numbers.”
I smirked. “I’ll tell him, but he’ll probably just double them again for spite.”
The man laughed, then shuffled back to his post.
Knox came up as I was closing out the last sale. He surveyed the mostly empty table, then uncrossed his arms and shrugged, which in Knox language meant, You didn’t fuck up. I beamed, a little, and he gave me a look that was almost fond.
“You want me to help haul this to the truck?” I asked, already stacking crates.
“Yeah. Get the eggs. Don’t break any.”
We loaded up, moving through the crowd in a two-man convoy. I watched the way people made space for him, the way even the guys twice his size instinctively stepped aside. At the truck, he tossed the baskets into the bed, then clapped me on the shoulder.
“Go tell Ma we’re heading back,” he said. “She’s at the pie tent.”
I started off in that direction, but doubled back when I remembered the little box of honey sticks left under the front seat. The lot was mostly empty now; the post-lunch rush had drained the market, leaving behind only the stragglers and the clean-up crews.
I dug under the seat, fingers scraping against grit and something sticky, then pulled out the honey box, a few sticks rattling loose.
As I straightened up, I saw them—two men, walking slow across the back edge of the lot, their steps too in-sync for it to be an accident. Both wore ball caps, both had the heavy build of guys who never bothered with gym memberships but could still snap your arm if you gave them a reason. They weren’t looking at the market. They were looking at me.
I pretended not to notice, pivoted to the tailgate and started counting the money in my change pouch, back turned to them but every nerve ending lit. Their footsteps closed the gap. I heard the crunch of gravel, the faint wheeze of one guy’s breath, the metallic squeak of a zipper.
