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Josiah Crane is leaning against the tailgate of a dusty truck with two coffees on the hood and the dog sitting at his feet. Jeans. Boots. A flannel over a gray thermal, sleeves shoved up his forearms. The morning sun catches the silver at his temples, and his skin looks warm in that light, deep brown against the gold aspens behind him. He isn't doing anything. Just standing there, taking up space without trying.

I hate that I notice any of it.

Sergeant spots me first. His tail thumps the gravel. He trots over and sits on my boots again, heavy and pleased with himself, and I have to plant my feet to keep from tipping.

"Morning," Josiah says. He holds out one of the coffees. "Mabel says you take it with cream and too much sugar."

"Mabel talks too much."

"She does." He waits, cup extended. His hand swallows it.

I take the coffee because I'm not an idiot. Then I pull a folded page out of my jacket pocket and hand him that in return.

He looks at it. Unfolds it. It's typed, bulleted, and color coded by priority, and I made it at midnight so he'd have it first thing.

"Your task list," I say. "Parking layout's on the back. Overflow goes in the church lot after nine Saturday. Vendors unload through the east gate before seven. I need somebody at the Main Street barricades from ten to two, and Griffin says that's you."

He reads the whole thing. Slowly. Front and back. Sergeant's tail sweeps my shins while I wait.

"This is good," he says.

"I know."

He folds it along the same crease and tucks it into his shirt pocket. Then he looks at me, steady and unhurried, and something in my stomach turns over.

"I got the signature," I tell him. "Fire marshal. This morning."

"Good."

That's it. That's all he says. No I told you so, no little smirk. He just picks up his own coffee and drinks it, watching the teenagers unload hay bales off a flatbed, and I stand there with my victory dance dying in my chest.

"Okay," I say. "Great. Parking lot's that way."

"Yes, ma'am."

I point at him with my coffee. He's already walking, but I swear the corner of his mouth moves.

* * *

By eleven forty five at night the festival grounds belong to me.

Booth frames stand in rows under the stars, skeletons waiting for canvas and bunting. The stage at the far end is dark. My flashlight beam slides over tarps and extension cords, the bonfire pit ringed with river rock, the cider stand Wade finished today with a hand painted sign I'll have to pretend I love. I walk the whole field every night. Four times, usually. Checking. It's the only way my brain lets me lie down.

The wind has teeth tonight. It comes off the ridge and slices right through my flannel. My jacket is in the car, because I was only going to be five minutes, and that was forty minutes ago.

The stage generator sits in a plywood box behind the platform. I flip the switch to test the lights. It coughs. It sputters. It dies.

"No. Don't do this to me."

I flip it again. Nothing but a sad mechanical rattle. I kick the side of the box. It doesn't help, but it feels good.

"That's not how you fix it."

I spin around so fast my flashlight beam swings wild across the grass and lands on a dog. Then on a man. Josiah stands between two booth frames with his hands in his pockets, and Sergeant sits beside him, looking delighted to see me.

"Jesus Christ." I press my hand flat against my chest. "What are you doing here?"

"Somebody's walking the grounds alone at midnight."