Page 58

My great-grandfather had funded its construction more than eighty years ago after deciding the pack had finally outgrown rotating reunions between family farms. He’d insisted a family needed a place that belonged to everyone, somewhere babies could take their first steps, teenagers could dance badly, couples could get married, and where every season could begin and end with the pack together.

Every wedding reception, funeral wake, holiday dinner, birthday party, baby shower, council briefing, and pack reunion had happened here for as long as I could remember.

Tomorrow was the first pack reunion in a long time, which meant I would spend the day focused on exciting elements like ladders, folding tables, and extension cords.

I was on the ladder, fastening another strand of café lights to the porch roof, when Trevor wandered over, three plastic tubs stacked nearly to his chin.

“A little help?” he asked.

“You need more than a little help. You can’t even see where you’re going.”

“I can see enough.”

“You nearly walked into a porch post.” I climbed down before gravity introduced Trevor to another structural support.

The tubs contained handmade centerpieces. Tiny carved wolves sat beside pinecones, wildflowers sealed in resin, and little wooden place card holders shaped like mountains.

“These look great,” I said honestly.

Trevor’s face lit up. “You really think so?”

I smiled and put the lid back onto one of the tubs. “I’ve been telling you that for weeks.”

“I know, but now you’re seeing the end product.” He picked one up carefully. “I almost added glitter.”

“I’m proud of you for resisting.”

“I didn’t completely resist.” He pointed toward the wolf. “If you tilt it into the light…”

I did. The resin contained microscopic gold flecks.

Trevor grinned. “See, it’s subtle.”

I shrugged. “I’ll allow it.”

He looked absurdly pleased, which happened more often than people noticed. Most conversations with Trevor ended with someone telling him what not to do. It wasn’t malicious. He simply generated ideas faster than the rest of us could evaluate them.

But sometimes, he needed encouragement instead of critical feedback.

He lugged the tubs inside while I got back on the ladder. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I slipped it out, smiling as I opened the text from Sloane.

Sloane: Hydration inspection.

Hudson: Passing.

Sloane: Evidence?

I took a photo of the insulated bottle sitting on the porch railing and sent it.

Hudson: Exhibit A.

Sloane: Acceptable.

Sloane: Have you eaten?

Julie and Mom had been in the kitchen since seven, preparing enough food to satisfy a small army, but I hadn’t stopped to grab a bite.

Hudson: Working on it.