“Want to see something?” he asks.
“Yeah!”
I follow him a couple of aisles over while my mom leans over the check-out counter to inspect what the guys are doing. Miles stops near a row of Styrofoam cups. I peer at the lid as if it’s translucent and I’ll find minestrone soup inside. They’re the same ones my mom sends in my school lunch. He peels back the edge, revealing a packed brown circle.
“You sell dirt?”
Miles snorts. “Of course not.”
He fishes through the crumbly mess and grips the head of something slimy, unearthing it and letting it squirm between his fingertips.
“We sell these!” He grins, holding up a wriggling invertebrate with pride.
“Cool!”
He transfers the squiggly thing to my open hand, and it swivels in anSshape against my palm, tickling it and making me fight off a giggle.
“What do people do with worms?” I ask.
“Use them for fishing bait,” Miles says.
“All right, that’s everything,” my dad interrupts, carrying a small plastic bag the size of his hand with a fishing hook on the front of it.
I cradle the worm until it drops into its dirt home once more. Miles covers it back up with the lid.
“You have the coolest job, Miles. I want to work at your fishing shop one day. Maybe instead of tadpoles, we can try fishing sometime?” I propose, even though he probably already has.
“I like fishing,” Miles says.
I’m pretty sure I could do anything with Miles, and it would be the best day ever.
I wave goodbye as my dad holds open the chiming door for my mom and me.
He’s through the threshold when he says, “Can you believe he just took the hinges straight off his cabinets and didn’t charge me a thing? Where do guys like him come from?”
As my mom draws me by the hand through the door, I look back at Miles. He’s waiting behind the counter, waving and smiling at me like I’m someone he hasn’t seen in forever, and I think I have my dad’s answer.
I’m pretty sure the good ones come from Bear Lake.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOW
It’s just past 8 o’clock when I slip out and begin my two-mile walk to work. Starting my day with twenty questions courtesy of my parents is not all it’s cracked up to be.
I need to clear my head.
The last thing Emmett Morgan deserves is a distracted employee at his brand-new restaurant. He’s taking a chance on me, and I need this job.
I pick up my pace until I stop short in front of a renovated brick building sitting to the right of the marina. Above the entrance, two beveled iron bars support a rectangular sign, its black aluminum letters welded in a scripted font that reads:Bear Shore.
How this place was ever the old safety station my parents described is a mystery to me. Nothing about the freshly painted garage doors and wraparound patio addition looks like a police station or a fire department.
I scan the building, conscious of the fact that I’m early. All of the doors appear locked except for a single one propped open along the back wall. Light shines through the crack and reflectsoff the glossy front of an industrial-grade stove. Wedged in the door frame is a lone leather loafer.
I peek through the opening and discover an empty kitchen.
“Hello,” I call to the silence.
