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He thought he’d lost her at an intersection on the outskirts of town when he was forced to stop for a red light and she scooted through on yellow. He took two wrong turns as he entered an older neighborhood, but eventually caught sight of her Dodge Dart parked at the curb before a single-level cottage. The corner yard was fenced. There was a small outbuilding, yet no garage. No sign of the chicken, either. She must have gone inside.
    He came to a stop, exited the Hummer, and locked it. He walked past the Dart, glancing inside. The baby carrier attached to the backseat gave him pause. As did the box of Pampers.
    Once on the sidewalk, he looked around. The houses along the boulevard were all boxy, painted white with short porches. Mature bare-limbed trees stood out against an overcast sky. Snow was forecast. He was tired of winter.
    He unlatched the gate, pushed through. It creaked as it closed behind him. A cement walkway led him to the porch. Blades of brown grass pushed between the cracks. Three wooden steps landed him at a door painted deep blue, the same hue as the wooden shutters on either side of the front windows. One narrow window was raised, drawing fresh air into the cottage.
    He pushed the doorbell with his thumb and, seconds later, saw an eye through the peephole. He heard the slide of a dead bolt. A middle-aged woman peeked out. An inside safety chain crossed her nose as she peered up at him.
    â€œCan I help you?” she asked.
    He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and gave her his most charming smile. “I’m looking for—”
    â€œMe!” A skinny young boy with shaggy brown hair came running. “It’s Halo Todd. He picked my letter. I won. He’s here for me.”
    Here for the boy? Halo blinked, taken aback. He caught a glimpse of a navy T-shirt ripped at the collar, sweat pants, and a short plaster arm cast, reaching from the kid’s knuckles to just below his elbow.
    Bouncing on his bare toes, the boy unhooked the chain. The door swung wide, and the kid charged Halo, giving him an enthusiastic hug. Then looking up, he grinned, revealing a missing front tooth, before turning to the woman behind him. “The contest. I’m going to spring training!”
    Halo stiffened. Letter, spring training? What the hell?
    The woman smiled at Halo, a warm, grateful smile. “I’m Martha Jayne, Danny’s mother,” she said. “Danny loves baseball. He gets on the computer every day after school and checks the Rogues’ website. That’s where he learned about the contest.”
    Halo’s jaw worked. Realization slapped him upside the head, unsettling him. He was aware of the event, but had ignored it. Community liaison Jillian Mac-Cates had spoken to the players at the final team meeting of the previous season. She’d set up a contest where fans could write to their favorite players. Then, on a designated date, the starting lineup would stop by James River Stadium, scan the letters, and each select a winner. They would personally notify and congratulate the winners.
    Those who won would be flown to Barefoot William for preseason. Ten days of ballgames, beach, and boardwalk. The players had benefitted from the positive press coverage and photo ops. Everyone but Halo. Months had passed. Time had gotten away from him. As it so often did.
    Jill’s most recent text was a stern reminder to get his butt in gear. He was the last player to pick a winner. He could almost hear Jillian drumming her fingers. Tapping her foot. He could picture her scowl. She was growing impatient. Plane tickets needed to be booked and accommodations reserved for the winners. Anyone under eighteen would travel with a chaperone.
    Last minute, and groaning inwardly, Halo had driven to the complex. Better late than never. He figured the letters could be read in under an hour. Maybe two at most. He had been wrong.
    The media room was stacked with huge boxes and bulging mailbags.