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Dangerous combination.

“Briggs,” she says.

I immediately become suspicious. “No.”

She stops two feet in front of me. “I haven’t asked anything.”

“You said my name with purpose.”

Fletcher laughs. “He knows you.”

“I know an ambush.”

Mars looks down at her clipboard, then up at me, and says, “Holiday Toy Drive.”

I look at Wayne, who suddenly finds the engine fascinating, avoiding eye contact entirely.

Rex leans back on his crate. “We’re expanding it this year.”

“Expanding,” I repeat.

“More families,” Mars says. “More deliveries. Coats too, not just toys. Winter came early and hard.”

I know that.

Everybody knows that.

Redwood Run winters aren’t the worst in the world, but they get mean in quiet ways. Damp cold. Long nights. Power outages. Roads slick enough to make fools of men who think weight and horsepower can argue with ice.

Kids always feel winter first. Hunger, cold bedrooms, shoes that stopped fitting months ago. Pride makes adults call it “managing,” but I know what it looks like underneath.

I was that kind of kid and I don’t enjoy remembering it. Doesn’t mean I ever forget.

“What do you need?” I ask.

Mars smiles because she already knew what I’d say.

I hate that.

“We need riders for delivery routes, people to help load, and someone to handle the heavier donations. Bikes, coats, food boxes, some furniture if we can swing it.”

“Furniture?”

“Small stuff. Cribs. A couple toddler beds. Maybe space heaters.”

“No space heaters unless they’re new and checked,” Wayne says without looking up. “I’m not delivering a house fire wrapped in charity.”

Mars points the pen at him. “Already on the list.”

“Course it is,” Fletcher mutters. “Mars was born with a list.”

“I was born efficient.”

“You were born terrifying.”

She smiles sweetly. “And yet you keep volunteering.”

Fletcher puts a hand to his chest. “I volunteer because I’m generous.”