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I moved on with Sloane beside me.

She glanced back once. “Bear family?”

“Bear shifters. The kids think it’s funny putting bear-crossing signs and fake fish near Mr. Fletcher’s mailbox,” I explained, “but with the wildlife corridor shrinking, the bears are stressed about land. If the county cuts the buffer zones, we’re going to have real territorial friction with the bear pack, not just teenagers pulling pranks.”

Sloane scowled, but before she could respond, Patty shouted her name. She ran across the lawn and wrapped Sloane in a hug. “You’re wearing it!”

Sloane laughed and set one hand against Patty’s back to keep her balance. “I told you I loved it.”

Patty released her and held the bottom of the shirt away from Sloane’s body to inspect the design. The distorted heroine from Nocturnal Hearts stretched across the black fabric in bright fragments of color.

Patty pressed both hands to her heart. “I might cry.”

“Please don’t,” Sloane said. “I don’t know the care instructions for your eyeliner.”

“Don’t worry. It’s waterproof.”

Sloane nodded. “Then proceed.”

Patty looked toward me. “Do you see this?”

“I do.”

“She’s wearing my art in public. In front of other people.”

I gestured toward the people milling around the hay bales. “It’s a family movie night.”

“That still counts as public.”

Sloane laughed, a sound I was quickly becoming obsessed with.

Patty linked her arm through Sloane’s. “Come on. You need food before Trevor eats all the brownies he died protecting.”

“I died with honor!” Trevor called from behind us.

A little boy shouted, “You were on fire!”

Patty pulled Sloane toward the back of the hall, already explaining the snack options. I followed at a slower pace, carrying her blanket.

The movie hadn’t started yet. Half the seating remained empty. Someone would probably need help with the projector before the night ended.

But Sloane was here, and all felt right in the world.

10

SLOANE

LATENT? YUP. SURE AM.

Grandma Ruth had hugged me twice before the movie started. I had also been questioned about my drive three times and warned by Aunt Karen that seating without back support would lead to spinal decline.

Karen delivered her commentary while repositioning a cushion behind her lower back. “I told Hudson the hay bales were impractical.”

I lowered myself into the folding chair beside Hudson and glanced at the rows of hay. Several children had abandoned the intended seating arrangement and were tunneling between the bales. Trevor sat on top of one in his neon crocheted armor, surrounded by littles who continued arguing over whether his death by imaginary dragon fire had been permanent.

“Maybe the hay is more for atmosphere,” I offered.

Karen huffed. “Atmosphere is rarely supportive of the lumbar spine.” She stood and walked away before I could answer.