Page 18 of That Rush

“Should I reinforce the furniture?”

She laughs. “You’ve lived here long enough to know they travel in packs.”

“I’ve also lived here long enough to know half this town mentions them at least once a day.”

“They’re hard to miss.”

“So is the water tower. I don’t rearrange my schedule for it.”

Her smile widens. “Speaking of your schedule, are you still refusing to do anything Friday night?”

“I’m not refusing anything. I have plans.”

“With people?”

“With a hammock and a book.”

“That is exactly what you said last Friday.”

“Because the first Friday went so well.”

She shakes her head and returns to the front desk while I lift the last box of craft supplies onto the table. I spend most of my week surrounded by people, answering questions, solving problems, and convincing children that books without dragons can still be worth reading.

By Friday, I want my cabin, the trail behind it, and several uninterrupted hours in which nobody asks me where the bathroom is while standing directly beneath the sign.

I kneel beside the craft table and separate markers into plastic cups. Two girls abandon the dollhouse to help, which lasts until they discover the metallic markers and begin negotiating ownership of the purple one.

“There are four purple markers,” I tell them.

The older girl holds it up. “This one is the best purple.”

I examine it with appropriate seriousness. “That is a very good purple.”

Her sister snatches another from the cup. “Mine is shinier.”

Crisis resolved.

I finish arranging the table, then check the clock. The room is nearly ready. Parents move between the shelves while children sprawl across beanbags and flip through books. The familiar hum of voices fills the room.

Then a sharp cry cuts through it.

I look toward the entrance.

Josie Slade stands just inside the children’s section with both hands clamped over her ears. Her glittery backpack hangs from one shoulder, and tears shine in her wide eyes as she stares at the crowded room.

A man crouches in front of her, broad enough to block most of the doorway. He holds three books in one hand while pointing toward the activity tables with the other.

“Do you want the horse book or the princess one?” he asks. “We can get the space book too. Or we can go see what they’re making over there.”

Josie squeezes her eyes shut.

He offers her another choice.

Every muscle in his body says he is prepared to fix this. Unfortunately, he is trying to solve the wrong problem.

I set down the tape and walk toward them.

Up close, I recognize him. Aiden Slade. In a town this small, you don’t need a formal introduction to know the Slades, or at least the stories people tell. But the man from the stories doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is the little girl struggling in front of him.