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Insurance doesn’t cover wild-animal attacks when you actively make the choice to live with one. So, we’re kind of fucked. The one thing Cecil is real serious about is paying bills on time, because the last thing we need is people poking around the property, looking to see what we’ve got of value.

The answer is—just the one thing.

That one thing is half an acre of marijuana, and that’s not exactly something a collection agency is interested in. But the sheriff sure would be.

The Oxy has been a nice sideline, a decent enough trickle coming in through what Cecil calls his guys. Cecil has always got a guy. It’s how we procured Dee and Zee, and of course, the cat. Now the little pickup brings bottles, and the cage in the back has been replaced with a shotgun rack.

But not enough bottles.

Because now I’m the one who’s got a guy. He’s coming down the trail with some buddies, and I’ve got nothing to sell him because I wasn’t planning on Felicity Turnado needing to get high and handing over money to make it happen.

Shit. That’s the other thing. I slip off my backpack and tuck the wad of cash inside. These guys aren’t going to be happy. Neither will Cecil, if they decide to jump me and take the day’s earnings instead of the pills they came for.

If that’s all they do to me.

I straighten my shoulders and stick out my chin, ready for the response when my usual customer shows up, two guys I don’t know alongside him.

“Tress,” he says, giving me an up-nod, and I give it back.

“Bad news,” I tell him. “Store’s closed, unless you want weed.”

“Weed?” He gives half a laugh, looking at his friends, who follow suit. “We’re not after weed, you know that.”

“I do,” I say, keeping it as agreeable as I can. “But I can’t sell you what I don’t have.”

“Well, that’s some bullshit,” one of his friends says, and I nod, still trying to keep it on the up-and-up.

“I know it,” I tell them. “But I got cleaned out. Would you turn somebody away who wants to hand over their cash?”

I hold up my hands, like What’re you gonna do? It makes me look like I’m with them, that I totally get where they’re coming from, and maybe we were all in the same place to begin with—just a bunch of people scrambling for money. It also lifts my jacket enough to display the butt of the tranq gun jammed into my jeans.

One of his buddies sees it, and his eyes flick off it, nervously.

It looks enough like a real gun to do the trick. And acts enough like one, too, in a pinch. But it can only hold one dart at a time, and there’s three of them.

“So you want some weed, or what?” I ask, trying to push them toward a decision. If I don’t give them enough time to get angry, they might forget that they are, and settle for something less than what they came for.

“Let’s talk a sec, over here,” my customer says to his buddies. I nod, like that’s perfectly fine, and they go off a few paces, heads together. I tighten my backpack straps, ready to run if I need to, and rest my hand on the butt of the gun.

Their voices rise, low and muttering, but then there’s something else, footsteps—heavy ones—and I realize someone is coming down the path, running, by the sounds of it. I usually duck into the trees when this happens, but I don’t want to be off-trail if I suddenly have to make a bolt for it. I tuck my jacket back down to cover the gun, and try to look like I’m just enjoying the view, when Hugh Broward comes tearing around the bend.

He’s in jogging shorts, a soaked shirt sticking to his torso. He sees me, nods, and keeps going, his gaze gliding over the guys as he passes them. His footsteps die off, and they turn back to me, my customer in front, his friends clearly flanking him.

I don’t think I’m going to like what they decided.

“Thing is, we came out here to buy Oxy,” he says.

“And I don’t have any,” I repeat, no longer trying to keep my voice polite, this meeting civil. I know nasty and have been around when plenty of things started heading that way. Like right now.

“Right . . . but you said you did, is the thing,” he says.

“And I did, but now it is gone,” I repeat. “So if you—”

“Hey, Tress.”

The four of us jump, all of us caught. Except, I’m glad to see Hugh, who apparently turned around and came back. He’s standing there taking up the whole path, sweat pouring down his face. His gaze sweeps the three guys, assessing, and coming out in his favor.

“You all right?” he asks me.