“I know.”
She laughed. “Do you ever just accept a compliment?”
“I just did.”
“No, you received it like a tax notice.”
“You want me to say thank you?”
“I want you to look pained while saying it.”
“Thank you.”
“More pained.”
“I’ve reached my limit.”
“Then I’ll take it.”
Caprice came between the tables with a roll of tape in one hand and a schedule tucked under her arm. She didn’t look at either of us. “Round Two is campfire mains this afternoon. I need a hot-dog beauty shot, a safety reset, and two competitorswho can speak in usable sentences without bickering over every noun.”
Sunny stepped back. “I speak beautifully.”
“You speak constantly,” Caprice said. “There’s a difference.”
I covered the last coals with the shovel. “Hot dogs are hard to overcomplicate.”
Sunny’s attention snapped back to me. “Bison dogs with smoked gouda, apple-cabbage slaw, and mustard drizzle.”
“Hot dogs,” I said.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re overcomplicating lunch.”
“You’re going to lose to coleslaw.”
“Not likely.”
She stepped back, taking the scent of caramel and huckleberry with her. “Keep telling yourself that, Fire Mountain.”
I didn’t correct the name.
I didn’t want to.
The crew started breaking down the tasting setup, and Caprice launched into instructions about sponsor cutdowns, Round One reaction shots, and where Ed needed to stand for the next pickup. Her voice stayed clipped and practical, with no patience for the argument she clearly considered bad workflow.
I carried the ash bucket to the cleared edge and checked the wind again.
Still west. Still warm. Still steady enough.
Across the clearing, Sunny snapped a lid onto a cooler and wiped her fingers on a towel. She moved fast, but not carelessly. Every jar sealed. Every used skewer placed in the metal tray. Every wrapper kept away from the rings.
She looked up and caught me watching.
No smile this time.
She planted one white platform sneaker in the dirt, lifted her chin, and pointed the towel at me like a warning.
