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She beams. “That’s him.”

I remember Wayne. Older than me. A great mechanic, always grease-streaked and serious. Ben admired him in that desperate, younger guy, hero worship way, following him around the garage like Wayne had personally invented the combustion engine.

“My brother Ben knew him,” I say before I can stop myself.

June’s expression changes as recognition dawns. “Oh. You’re Laurel.”

My whole body braces.

But she doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t turn to Lucy with that awful sympathetic tilt of the head.

She just says simply, “Ben was loved around here. I haven’t lived here long, but I’ve heard a lot of good things about him.”

I look away, pretending to study the stall across the street before looking back to meet her eyes. “That’s good to hear. He had a knack of making people feel comfortable.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He also made property damage a kind of hobby,” I admit.

June’s laugh is quick and warm. “Heard that too.”

Lucy strokes the fox’s back with her thumb.

“What’s his name?” June asks her.

Lucy thinks about it very seriously. “Foxy.”

June nods as if it’s the finest name ever bestowed. “Perfect.”

I like her, I realize, although it’s incomprehensible to me how quickly it happens.

I dislike most people on first meeting, then allow them to earn exceptions. June bypasses several internal security protocols by being kind to Lucy without trying to own the moment.

“You make the toys?” I ask her curiously.

“Most of them,” June says. “Wayne helps when I need larger cuts, Fletcher paints some of the pieces, and Rex pretends he’s not emotionally invested in sanding.”

“Those are also your partners?”

Her mouth curves, her green eyes twinkling. “Yes.”

I nod. “Okay.”

June glances at me, clearly amused. “That’s a very polite reaction.”

“I’m known for my restraint.”

She laughs again.

“How long are you in town?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Until things are… less on fire.”

June’s expression softens. “That sounds hard.”

The automatic sarcasm rises to the tip of my tongue, but something halts it there. Maybe because Lucy is standing next to me, the sadness absent from her face for once, her small hands cradling a carved wooden fox and a disreputable rabbit. Or maybe it’s the warmth in June’s eyes and the weariness in my bones. Something inside me gives way.

“It is,” I admit.