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I was twenty minutes late to morning feeds at the clinic, a first in two years, and Lyle's truck rattled in behind me. He climbed out in his old canvas coat, took in my red eyes and the diner cup, and raised his eyebrows. "That's not your usual travel mug."

"Grayson left it."

"Mm." He rubbed his jaw. "His truck was parked outside your place when I drove by for feed. Quarter to six, lights were off. I figured he was either robbing you or courting you, and he's never struck me as the burglar type."

Heat rushed up my neck. "Lyle."

"Drink your coffee, young lady."

"I'm thirty-three."

"Practically geriatric," he said, and went in ahead of me, whistling.

* * *

We were assigned the volunteers' table together, because of course we were. The whole town seemed set on putting us in the same place. The tent smelled of canvas and hot cider, and somewhere a speaker was playing spooky organ music. The table was sticky and stacked with raffle tickets and clipboards. Grayson sat one folding chair away in his department jacket, shaved that morning, a faint shadow already coming back along his jaw. He smelled of soap and clean cotton, and that took me straight back to his bed, his chest under my cheek. I pressed my knees together under the table and made myself breathe.

He was courteous. He handed me the clipboard before I could reach for it and moved the raffle crate off my chair without a word. Not once did he mention the maze, the corn, or the fire lane, and the quiet between us didn't feel like a punishment. It felt like him waiting.

I read the volunteer sign-up sheet far longer than it needed. Somewhere in the second half hour, I caught the pen between my teeth, an old habit. Then I caught him watching my mouth. Color climbed my neck and burned to my ears. I took the pen out. He didn't look away, and neither did I, and for one long breath the organ music and the crowd and the sticky table all dropped away.

Then Mrs. Ko, who ran the bunting committee like a small, well-armed nation, wanted the judging tent strung up before noon. Grayson took the ladder. I fed him twine.

The aluminum rails were cold under my hands. His boot was a foot from my face, and up close I could smell the soap on his jacket and the sun-warmed canvas of the tent. He climbed two rungs, stopped with one hand on the pole, and glanced down.

"Hey."

"Hey." I wound the twine around my fingers. "People are right there, you know."

"They're arguing about cider." His boot shifted on the rung. "I'm not going to crowd you. I just wanted to say that."

"Okay."

"And I meant all of it. Yesterday." He rubbed his thumb along the pole, looking at it instead of me. "You had something to say about Thursday. You don't have to say it now."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. The twine bit into my fingertips.

"Whenever you're ready." He looked down at me then, his dark eyes steady. "I'm not going anywhere."

Heat poured over my face again, but I held his eyes anyway. He nodded once, as if he hadn't expected more, and turned back to the bunting.

Since the maze I had been looking for a way out. I'd just figured out I didn't want one. He'd said he would wait, and I believed him. The trouble was who he was waiting for. The woman in the mask had never existed. I looked at his hands on the bunting, scarred and steady, and gripped the ladder with both of mine.

Chapter 8

Grayson

Idid the last walk-through at two-thirty. The hay had been moved forty feet from the deep fryer at last, and I stood and looked at that for longer than the hay required. Then I did what I'd been doing since Thursday and let my route end at the petting zoo.

Molly was inside the pen with a bucket of feed, and the brown goat was shadowing her. Her braid was back in place, pulled tight, and her sleeves were shoved up past her elbows. The afternoon sun lit the dust over the straw, and the air smelled of warm animals and cider donuts from the next stall. I stopped at the rail and kept both hands on it. Last time I'd climbed over without asking. This time it was her pen, and her rules.

I hadn't slept more than two hours. I'd waited until her windows went dark before I touched that ladder, because I'd told her I wouldn't crowd her, and then I'd spent half the night on it and the rest lying on my back, remembering the way she'd said please. My body still hadn't gotten the message that I was supposed to be on my best behavior.

Molly poured the feed into the trough with a lot of care and not one wasted motion, and the tips of her ears went pink.

"You're not coming in," she said, without looking up.

"No."