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“I’m evaluating the risk.”

Her mouth turned up.

She put her hand in mine.

I pulled her into the moving edge of the crowd. We got half a turn before a little boy ran between us carrying a length of bunting like a lasso. Priya caught my shoulder. I caught her waist.

“Good start,” she said.

“Crowd interference.”

The band shifted songs. The fiddle slowed. Couples around us moved closer.

Priya’s hand slid from my shoulder to the back of my neck. My hand settled at her waist, over the knot of the flannel sleeves. We moved carefully for the first few steps, then less carefully when it became clear neither of us was planning to count.

I pulled her closer.

She laid her cheek against my chest.

The whole day changed.

The crowd remained. Music, boots, laughter, the clink of bottles dropped into galvanized tubs, somebody yelling at Petey to stop helping the band. But she rested against me, and the noise moved outward. My chin touched the top of her head. Her hand stayed at my neck. Her other hand was folded in mine against my chest.

I moved us slowly through the dust.

“You tired?” I asked.

“Very.”

“Good tired?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Fair.”

“I keep waiting for someone to ask me a question.”

“People have asked you questions all day.”

“Questions I had to answer.”

“That kid asked you whether cows could swim.”

“They can.”

“I knew that.”

“You told him they used inflatable arm bands.”

“He was worried.”

“He is now misinformed.”

“He’s happier.”

She made a sound against my shirt. Half laugh, half sigh.

“No one needed me,” she said.