“Pretty sure no one has beenPunk’dsince 2007.”
I stepped around the center island and stood next to him, eager for his attention. “You knit?Youare a knitter? One who traffics in handknits?”
He shrugged like it was no big deal and not the single greatest revelation of my life, besides the butt-tattoo thing. “Yeah. My mom taught me. We started with crochet, and then once I got that down, we switched to knitting. I was always abusy kid, couldn’t sit still and caused trouble when I got bored. On nice days, I’d go outside and kick a soccer ball because that was what I liked doing. But when it was cold or rainy, I’d knit. I liked the repetition, the sense of producing something and seeing the quantifiable results.”
Brady said all this easy enough, like it wasn’t an admission. Like it was just something to chat about while he gathered and prepped vegetables for the saucepan. He and I were so different. If I had revealed something so personal about myself, I would have been snapping and snarling like a distrustful mutt, afraid someone would use my vulnerability against me.
But I could remember a young Brady in elementary school, how he’d been a troublemaker early on before he’d eventually embraced his class clown persona. Oftentimes, he’d been hyper and unable to sit still. Some teachers had been better than others at managing his energy and keeping his attention.
In third grade, our teacher had let him stand up and walk around if he needed to, not requiring him to stay seated while he listened. There’d been Mrs. Ostler in sixth grade who’d given him a fidget block that he kept in his desk. But early on, there had also been educators who’d made him sit out in the hall when he talked too much or called him out in front of the class when he hadn’t paid attention.
Something I’d noticed over the years was that if Brady liked something and was engaged in it—like soccer or geography and maps—he could stay focused, no problem. But if it was fourth-period biology that basically had us regurgitating the textbook, then he had trouble. He’d skipped that class a lot junior year.
Brady was never on the honor roll, and he hadn’t received any academic awards on banquet night, but he’d utilized his athleticism and his personality. He was a charmer, and teachers liked him. In high school, he came in early and stayed late. It was obvious he didn’t like reading our biology assignments, but he helped Mr. Ammons set up experiments and participated in extra-credit events at the local wildlife center to bring his grade up.
Hearing Brady speak so casually about his ADHD made me wonder how he managed the specifics of it now. Then I thought more about the way he could focus easily on the things he cared about and how his attention on me had never wavered.
I swallowed and wrapped the scarf more snugly around me. “You’re a man of many talents, Brady Judd.”
He gave me a pleased grin, then went back to chopping onions.
“So how’s it going with Amos lately?” I asked, suddenly eager to change the subject.
It had been nearly two months since the kid had gotten caught and been put to work. Brady had mentioned him a few times but didn’t say if his punishment was over yet. At first, it had been pretty rocky. Amos had a typical teenage attitude. The little punk hadn’t realized he’d been lucky in the long run.
“Good,” Brady offered. “His six weeks were up a while back, but he kept showing up. I’ve been setting aside wages for his mom, figured it was the right thing to do. He’s been helping me prune, and we’ll have pest control to manage soon. The kid has actually taken to Joan. Follows her around like a puppy, asking questions.”
The teen with the chip on his shoulder and the grumpy farmer. The image made me smile. “And she actually answers him?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s way more patient with him than she is with me.” Brady laughed.
Eventually, Brady didn’t let me get away with just standing and watching. Despite my protests and evidence of being horrible in the kitchen, he was pretty determined to teach me a thing or two. We made it through meal prep with minimal incident and enjoyed a casual dinner together in the sunroom.
After I’d shoveled in the last bite of my individual-sized chocolate-peanut-butter lava cake, I heard a sound from outside.
“What’s that?” Brady said, setting his plate aside and rising to his feet.
I joined him at the back door as we watched a shaggy black bear wrap its paws around the hanging birdfeeder.
I sighed. “That’s my grandmother’s bear.”
“What?” he asked, incredulous.
“See her left ear?”
Brady’s breath fogged the glass as he peered out into the dark.
“She comes around every now and then and breaks the birdfeeder,” I explained. “My grandma Nola loves her.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Brady said, opening the door. “I’ll protect you.”
I rolled my eyes. “She’s just hungry and probably couldn’t find a full trash can anywhere. And I don’t need protecting,” I shouted over the sound of Brady loudly clapping his hands, trying to get the bear to move along.
As expected, the bear ignored Brady’s efforts. But then movement off to the side of the porch caught my eye. Two smaller furry bodies were sniffing eagerly along the flower bed. The bear cubs looked young and adorable. However, their presence just complicated matters. Black bears weren’t really aggressive unless they felt like their offspring might be threatened.
“Brady,” I hissed right as the bear raised her head and abruptly abandoned the birdfeeder, attention focused on her cubs and their proximity to the two dumb humans.
Reaching forward into the chilly night, I snagged Brady by the back of the shirt and yanked. “Get inside!”
