Page 96 of Keep

Georgia unrolled around them like something from a nature documentary—pine forests thick enough to hide bodies, hills that rolled without ever quite committing to being mountains, the occasional field where cows stood around looking philosophical. It was beautiful. It was also deeply, unmistakably not his.

Hank drove the way he did everything—carefully, both hands on the wheel, checking mirrors more than necessary. But his shoulders were different here. Lower. His accent had thickened somewhere around the state line, the vowels stretching out like they’d been let off a leash.

“You’re staring,” Hank said.

“You’re different here.”

“Different how?”

“Looser. Like someone untied something.” Chad watched another small town appear and vanish—white steeple, gas station, dollar store, gone. “In DC you always look like you’re waiting for someone to ask you a question you haven’t prepped for.”

Hank considered this. “That’s... not inaccurate.”

“Here you’re just driving.”

“I’m just driving.” Hank’s mouth twitched. “Don’t tell Patricia. She’d have a stroke if she knew I was ‘just driving’ three days before an election.”

Chad turned back to the rental’s window. A hawk was doing slow circles over a mown field, patient and purposeful, hunting something Chad couldn’t see.

Three days. You’re meeting his ex-wife in three hours. His people. His whole world. And you’re wearing a jacket you bought at a thrift store in Adams Morgan.

Reel it in, Chad.

Riverside BBQ was a cinder-block building with a gravel lot, a tin roof, and a hand-lettered sign promising the best pulled pork in Forsyth County. The parking lot was pickups and SUVs, a few sedans with FORTNER FOR GEORGIA bumper stickers, and one minivan with a Jesus fish and a Braves decal that pretty much summarized the electorate.

“Ready?” Hank asked, cutting the engine.

“Define ready.”

“Willing to exit the vehicle.”

“Then yes. Barely.”

Hank leaned over and kissed him—quick, firm, the kind of kiss that was half affection and half pep talk. “You’ll be fine. If anyone asks you something uncomfortable, just say you’re glad to be here supporting me and change the subject.”

“That works?”

“About sixty percent of the time.”

“And the other forty?”

“Find me.” Hank opened his door. “I’ll be the one sweating through my shirt.”

Inside was warm, loud, and smelled of woodsmoke, vinegar, and cinnamon. A banner over the buffet read FORTNER FOR GEORGIA in letters that were enthusiastic, if not precisely aligned. Maybe forty people, paper plates, the easy noise of folks who’d known each other since birth.

Hank moved through the room, and Chad watched it happen—the transformation from the slightly bumbling man who couldn’t order at a restaurant without listing every option to someone who remembered every name, every mother’s surgery, every kid’s scholarship. Jimmy, how’s she doing? Betty, that pie was something else. Frank, you must be so proud. His hands found elbows, shoulders, the small of backs. He laughed more. Touched more. The accent was fully deployed now, not an affectation but a homecoming, and the people responded to it the way flowers responded to the sun—they turned toward him.

This is who he is, Chad thought. Before the Senate. Before DC. Before you. This.

He loaded a plate at the buffet because it gave his hands a purpose and because the pulled pork smelled like a religious experience. Found a table near the window. Ate. Watched.

A woman with an iron-gray perm and the posture of someone who’d spent decades commanding classrooms studied him for a long moment and said, “You’re younger than I expected.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I imagine you do.” She pursed her lips. Then a small, grudging smile. “Go get some banana pudding before the Hendersons eat it all. They do it every time.”

Chad got banana pudding. It was heavenly. He was contemplating a second helping when a man settled into the chair across from him—mid-fifties, Braves cap, the kind of face that had opinions and wasn’t shy about them.