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“Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“You’re the one who told me most people wouldn’t bother.”

One corner of my mouth ticks up at that.

We get back in the truck and I pull around to the back. I back in and park.

When we open the tailgate, the back doors creak open.

I almost shudder, remembering when I was dropped off here the first time.

I’d been caught hotwiring a dirt bike at fourteen, and although the cops offered to take me home, I’d refused. Spent two nights in juvie waiting for a hearing.

The judge took one look at me, small and sullen, and said Wayward Hills might be a good place for me.

Jerry Greenwood, the local deputy back then, waited at the back gate just like we are.

“Marcus?”

My eyes shoot to Margo.

“You alright?”

“Fine.”

She frowns. “You don’t look fine.”

I just let out a breath in response.

I start putting pastry boxes in my arms to keep myself from thinking.

A couple of the older kids come out, too, helping.

One of them, a dark-haired, scrawny thing, mean mugs me as he walks by.

I crack a smile. Could have been me twenty-five years ago.

“Say thank you, boys,” Mrs. Reeves scolds.

“Thank you,” they say sullenly, in unison, before taking the pastries inside.

“Won’t you come inside, Marcus?” Mrs. Reeves asks. “You and your wife are welcome to join us for lunch.”

Wife. The word lands in my chest and stays there.

Margo opens her mouth but I speak before she can.

“We’ve got to get back, Mrs. Reeves. Lots of work to do before the festival.”

She frowns but then lightning cracks overhead, followed by a boom of thunder.

“All this rain. I hope the festival doesn’t get canceled.”

“It won’t,” I say confidently. “Hollow Pine has a ballroom and a backup generator.”

Mrs. Reeves smiles again, and I guess she’s mellowed out in her old age. She used to be a severe woman, but she’d meant well.

Taught me a lot.