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I do too.

Bitter's eyes find me again.

He smiles this time.

Small.

Careful.

I let him have one back.

Hyde lifts his hand. “Three. Two. One. Dig.”

The whistle blows.

Five shovels hit dirt.

The contest is ridiculous.

Naturally, everybody takes it seriously.

One local man has brought gloves that look professionally engineered. A woman two spaces down from Bitter digs like somebody personally insulted her ancestors. Boogie spends several minutes arguing with a worm he has apparently named Gerald.

Bitter works steadily.

Mercy told me Crypt checked Bitter's shoulder and ruled out a serious tear. It's badly strained, though, and he's supposed to take it easy. By the way he favors one side every few throws, I doubt this contest qualifies as taking it easy. He keeps going without making a production out of it and without looking over to see whether I notice.

Unfortunately, I do.

I notice everything about him.

That remains inconvenient.

Mercy leans closer. “Stop staring.”

“I am watching the contest.”

“You've watched one contestant for seven minutes.”

“He is familiar.”

“He was more familiar the other night.”

My face heats.

“Mercy.”

“What?”

“I am emotionally vulnerable.”

“That does not make me less observant.”

At the end, Bitter's grave is deepest.

Of course it is.

Mercy insists on measuring because, in her words, men routinely lie about inches and civic events require oversight.