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The mayor’s office-slash-deli was already buzzing as I stepped inside.

I’d tried to prepare myself after reading the hand-lettered sign in the window outlawing weapons and fighting and maiming…but there was only so much preparation you could do.

Inside, the smell of corned beef battled with hot coffee and cheap perfume. The front half of the store was all deli, with glass cases, meat slicers, and jars of pickles. The back half had been commandeered by the bingo mafia.

I wasn’t sure where the mayor’s offices were.

Three folding tables were lined up under fluorescent lights, each covered in a plastic cloth. Every seat was taken by a woman with gray or white hair, sensible shoes, and the dead-eyed focus of combat veterans.

The man at the front, who I assumed was the mayor, mostly by the worn-down slump of his shoulders, stood clutching a microphone like it was holding him upright. His hair, or what brave strands remained, clung to his scalp in thin, trembling wisps. Hattie had mentioned something about his wife’s affair and how he’d taken her back, though apparently the hair hadn’t been so fortunate.

I wondered how their marriage was holding up now…and whether the hair had still been the smart one for leaving.

“B twelve,” he called.

Daphne, whom I recognized instantly from the Facebook profile Hattie had shown me before I left, as if arming me for battle, shot to her feet. Her scowl was exactly as advertised. “Again?” she screeched.

“You rigged last week, Barrett!” another woman shouted. “You think we forgot?”

“It’s random,” he protested, holding up the little white ball like it was Exhibit A. “Look, you can see⁠—”

A bingo dauber sailed across the room with shocking velocity and smacked into the wall behind him, leaving a neon-green starburst that slowly began to drip.

“Oh, for—Daphne!” he yelped, ducking and clutching his chest like he’d narrowly escaped death. “We talked about this!”

“That was an accident,” she said primly, lowering her arm with all the dignity of someone who absolutely meant to do it.

“You hit the same spot as last week,” he said, pointing accusingly at the wall.

“Consistent accidents,” she snapped, folding her arms. “I like to be reliable.”

He continued to gape at her in horror, but his look had no effect whatsoever. If anything, she seemed encouraged by it.

“Call another number, you coward,” Daphne hissed.

I snorted, and somehow it was loud enough to get everyone’s attention. Thirty pairs of eyes landed on me, a stranger in jeans and corpse-citrus.

The mayor seized on my existence like a drowning man spotting driftwood. “Ah! You’re Sienna, right? You here to⁠—”

Three dozen grandmothers leaned forward in eerie, synchronized interest, a knitting circle in the middle of a cult initiation, and I took a single, terrified step back.

“You know what?” I said. “This is the wrong room. I thought this was…jury duty. My bad. You all seem very…invested. I’ll just…leave you to it.” I backed away slowly, careful not to trigger a throwing arm again, and retreated down the hall and out to the street.

“Right,” I said once the relative safety of the sidewalk wrapped around me. I paused there for a second, dragging in a breath like I’d just escaped something with rules and blood oaths. “I’m not ready for geriatric warfare. Next.”

I glanced back at the building, half expecting a dauber to come flying through the door after me. “Next,” I muttered, turning away quickly.

All right…so that was one strike.

Dot’s it was.

Dot’s Diner was full enough to qualify as a fire hazard.

Every booth was packed, the counter stools taken, people wedged into narrow spaces that barely qualified as seats. The air hummed with grease and overlapping conversation.

The bell over the door announced my entrance. A few heads turned with quick, curious glances, but they quickly shifted back to their eggs and gossip.

I somehow managed to find a corner stool at the counter, careful not to elbow anything as I sat down. The woman behind the bar had to be Dot. She was a petite, silver-haired force who moved with the quiet confidence of someone who’d baked her way through generations of town drama. Her apron was streaked with flour, coffee, ketchup, and something neon-blue I hoped was frosting.