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twelve-pack he must’ve swiped from the Mercantile. When they reached her and
Patience, Hazel glanced at the line of tourists baking in the sun at the
entrance gate. She started in the opposite direction, saying, “Let’s sneak in
by the goat pen.”
    As they casually climbed over the
fence and passed eager kids manning 4-H livestock displays, Hazel hoped a new
attraction might’ve shown up this year, like a lobster boy sideshow or pickled
punk display. But glancing around, she saw only more of the same: squealing
piglets and mean goats, caramel apples sure to give the little kids massive
bellyaches, crafty goods and antique farm gear, and rides trucked in and
operated by carnies much scarier than an actual turn on the Tilt-A-Whirl or
Octopus.
    “I’ll catch up with you,” Patience
called over her bare shoulder, making a beeline for the fortuneteller’s tent.
Decorated with moons and stars, the hand-painted sign out front challenged: Discover What Lies in Wait—If You Dare . Daring, Patience disappeared through the clatter of beads that curtained the
entrance to the dark tent.
    Hazel wondered how many visits Patience
would pay to Madame Marcelle this year, and how much mumbo jumbo it would take
this time around to quiet the grim expectations that were Patience’s constant,
chatty companions.
    Sean slung an arm across Hazel’s
shoulders and steered her toward his mother’s dessert stand, with Tanner
pulling up the rear. And after talking Honey Adair out of three bulging slices
of blackberry pie, they made their way to the nearest shade beneath an ancient
oak that overhung the duck pond.
    Sean plopped onto the low wall
surrounding the pond and barked, “Scram!” at the two Rhone girls playing
beneath the tree. Ducks scattered as if he’d meant them.
    “You’re big fat fatheads,” said
seven-year-old Violet Rhone. “So there.” She concluded by sticking out her
tongue, bright pink from the cotton candy she was chewing.
    “So there,” echoed five-year-old
Daisy Rhone, accentuated by a swing of her hips.
    “That the best you’ve got?” Hazel
laughed. She babysat the round-faced, redheaded sisters on the rare occasion
Zachary Rhone took his wife Melanie down to Stepstone Valley for a special
night out.
    Daisy tugged on the front pockets
of Hazel’s shorts with her little hands. “We’re gonna be in the rodeo parade. Will
you watch us? You have to!”
    “I will, I will!” Hazel promised,
prying off Daisy’s sticky fingers and then scooting her away with a few pats to
her behind. “But you’d better be good,” she warned the lingering girls in the
most menacing tone she could muster, “or else the bogeyman will getcha.”
    The sisters took off running,
flapping their arms and screaming, “Hawkin Rhone! Hawkin Rhone!” until Daisy
ran smack dab into Old Man Mathers’ midsection.
    Ben Mathers fumbled and his hot
dog hit the dirt. Then he glared at Hazel as though it were her fault. Hazel
was used to it. Anytime anything bad happened, Mathers blamed a
Winslow—even before the death of his wife Lottie. But after that, it had
only gotten worse.
    He threw up his hands as if to say, Why do I even bother ,before he marched back to the hot dog
stand, his spindly legs poking out of the Bermudas belted just below his chest.
    Tanner’s laugh was high-pitched.
It annoyed Hazel and when she glanced at Sean, his pinched expression told her
it bugged him too.
    “Is that Hawkin Rhone?” Tanner
asked after he’d caught his breath.
    “No.” Hazel watched the old man
wrangle a free replacement out of the hot dog vendor. “That’s Patience’s
grandfather.”
    Tanner sat down next to Sean on
the low wall. “Then who’s Hawkin Rhone?”
    Hazel looked at Sean but his face
was unreadable—all pie chewing and no emoting. She sank down to the cool
grass and sat cross-legged, facing the pond. “He used to be town baker until
there was this incident,” she told Tanner. “Then he was banished to live out
his