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Outside, the early afternoon air is bright and warmer than it was this morning, the kind of Tennessee day that starts cool and tricks tourists into dressing wrong before making them sweat by supper. The school’s back lot sits between the funeral home, coffin workshop, and a gravel strip where staff park. Beyond that, the road bends toward Main Street. Festival crews are still working. A man in overalls wrestles with a banner for tomorrow’s hand-dig grave contest. Two women argue over where to put the cider booth. Uncle Cletus, who ain’t my uncle but is somebody’s punishment from God, unloads taxidermied squirrels dressed like a wedding party from the back of his truck.

I make a note to avoid his booth.

Sweet stands near the dumpster, trying to toss one bag in without touching the lid.

“You know,” I say behind her, “trash usually don’t bite.”

She jumps, but only a little, then turns with one hand pressed to her chest. “Do you practice appearing like a bad omen, or is that natural?”

“Natural.”

“Figures.”

She nudges the dumpster lid with two fingers, nose scrunched. “I can handle dead people, but mystery dumpster liquid is where I draw the line.”

“That’s fair.”

“Thank you for respecting my boundaries.”

“I respect all kinds of things.”

“Do you?”

“Occasionally.”

She throws the bag in and looks proud enough that I almost smile. Then she reaches for the second.

I take it from her.

Her brows lift. “I had that.”

“I know.”

“Then why take it?”

“Because I’m bigger than you and closer to the smell.”

“That is oddly considerate.”

“Don’t spread it around.”

“I wouldn’t dare ruin your terrifying reputation.”

I toss the bag in and shut the lid with my boot. When I turn back, we’re close enough for me to see the freckles across her nose, faint and gold under makeup. She smells like soap, hairspray, and the apple moonshine she drank this morning.

Her eyes flick to my mouth, quick but not quick enough. Her mouth is close enough that I can picture exactly what it would look like swollen from mine. Worse, I can picture the sound she’d make if I backed her against that brick wall and put my hand under that pretty little dress. My dick likes the idea enough to become inconvenient. Her no from this morning is apparently the only part of me with any damn manners, because it keeps my hands where they are.

“You looking, Sweet?”

She meets my eyes, cheeks pink but chin steady. “Observing.”

“That what we call it?”

“I’m in school. Observation is part of learning.”

“You want to learn something from me?”

“That depends. Is it on the syllabus?”