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under the hood?” Trace asked.
    As Beau went into four-cylinder tech talk, Trace checked his phone.
    â€œAs if she’s going to call you,” Beau said.
    Trace looked out his side window. “I should have let her know I was coming.”
    â€œA little late now,” Beau said, downshifting once more.
    They drove down Main Street, which was mostly empty. “I probably should head home, check in with my old man,” Trace said. “It’s been a while.”
    â€œOkay,” Beau said. “I’m going to drive around until Ifind some V-8 sucker to hustle. Lots of them in this town.”
    â€œIf you see her, call me,” Trace said.
    Beau dropped Trace back at the school, chirping his tires as he left the parking lot. Trace listened to him go through his gears, then turned to his own car. On the way home, he called his father.
    â€œTrace! What’s up?” his dad asked.
    â€œNothing. Well, not nothing. I’m in town.”
    â€œTown? What town?”
    â€œHere. Headwaters.”
    There was silence. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Oskaloosa tonight?”
    â€œYeah, well, it’s a long story.”
    â€œHoly moly. You didn’t—”
    â€œNo, I didn’t lose my ride,” Trace said. “I’m just taking a night off. I came back for prom.”
    There was murmuring in the background. His father’s voice came back, louder this time. “Prom? You never said anything about coming home for prom.”
    â€œKind of a last-minute thing,” Trace said.
    â€œAh, okay,” his father said.
    â€œAnyway, I’ll be home in about ten minutes.”
    â€œTen minutes? Ah, okay, great. See you soon, kid.”
    Kid.
His father never called him “kid.” What was up with that?
    â€œOkay,” Trace said. He shut his phone, shrugged, and headed northwest out of Headwaters and into farm country.
    The Bonham farmstead had a wide yard, fronted onthe west side by shiny grain bins, then the long machine shed on the south. Trace’s house, a modern rambler, was tucked behind a windbreak on the north.
    Parked by the house was a Corvette, a nothing model, early 1980s, with a door dent. His father hadn’t said anything about a ’Vette.
    Trace parked and went inside. He did not bother to knock, but actually thought about it—which was a little strange. It still was his home.
    â€œTrace!” his father called. He came across the room in jeans and T-shirt, barefooted, and gave Trace a hug. He smelled like a woman—perfume of some kind. Women and booze.
    â€œWell, hi again, Trace,” came a woman’s voice. It was Linda, his dad’s girlfriend. She was wearing one of Trace’s shirts—a white one—and not much else that Trace could see. Her hair was wet.
    â€œFor God’s sake, put some clothes on,” Don Bonham said as Trace pulled away.
    â€œI have clothes on.” Linda giggled. “I found this nice shirt.”
    â€œMore clothes!” Don said. He stalked across the room, grabbed her elbow, and spun her around, then pushed her out of sight down the hallway. He turned back to Trace. “I’m really sorry.”
    Trace shrugged. “Hey. I guess it’s Saturday night.” He turned to the refrigerator, which had a half loaf of bread, lots of beer, some pickles, and a big block of stinky cheese.
    â€œHungry?” his father asked quickly.
    â€œNot really,” Trace said.
    â€œThat cheese is not for everyone, but it’ll grow on you,” he said.
    â€œLooks like it’s already growing,” Trace said.
    â€œHave a beer, then,” his dad said. “Unless you’re going out again.”
    Trace paused. From the rear of house, probably his parents’ bedroom, Linda was singing.
    â€œWe’re kind of partying,” his dad said. “I wish I had known . . .”
    â€œYeah, I meant to call,” Trace said. “I