Page 35 of Carver’s Crusade

Balanced…ish.

Carver, on the other hand, is not even pretending to hold back. He piles his plate high with a little of everything, like he’s preparing for battle instead of dinner.

“You planning to share with the table?” I ask dryly.

“Nah,” he says. “All mine.”

I laugh as he nods toward an empty table. “Let’s sit.”

He leads me to a table tucked slightly away from the crowd. The noise fades just enough as we sit, plates full, knees brushing under the table.

And suddenly, this feels a lot less like a party…

…and a lot more like something else entirely.

I take a deep breath to center myself before focusing on Carver.

“So, what happened yesterday? Did you confront the kids?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Tracked them out to Lake Chullas Park.”

I set my food down, suddenly not as hungry. “What were they doing out there?”

“Living,” he says simply.

That one word hits harder than anything else.

Carver drags a hand over the back of his neck before continuing. “They created a small campground in a clearing. They had sleeping bags and a fire going while they ate the fast food they brought on the way out of town. It wasn’t just the two from the swap meet.”

My chest tightens. “How many of them?”

“Four. Two boys, two girls.” His voice softens just a fraction. “Young, Raven. Youngest can’t be more than eight.”

“Eight?” The word comes out sharper than I intend. I shake my head. “That’s… that’s not okay.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

I lean forward, lowering my voice even though no one’s paying us any attention. “Did you talk to them?”

“Dante did.” Carver’s jaw shifts slightly, like he’s replaying it. “Kid in charge—sixteen, maybe—he did most of the talking. Said they ran after their dad died.”

“And their mom?” I ask, already bracing.

Carver’s expression darkens. “I don’t know what happened to their mom. They have a stepmom, and she’s not someone they were safe with.”

I swallow, my appetite completely gone now. “So they’ve just been… surviving out there? Stealing from you because they have no other choice?”

“Looks that way.”

I sit back slowly, processing it. The noise of the clubhouse fades into the background again, replaced by the image in my head—four kids in the woods, trying to build a life out of scraps.

“They’re not criminals,” I say quietly.

Carver studies me. “Didn’t say they were.”

“But they’re going to get treated like they are if someone else finds them,” I press. “Or worse.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low.