Page 167 of Wild Card 13

Lucy pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.

I leaned closer. “Sacred text.”

“This town is deeply strange,” Lucy giggled.

“You missed it.”

Her eyes flicked to mine.

There it was again. Too much. Too fast.

Then she looked down and carefully unwrapped her burger to let it cool. “I missed the fries.”

For a while, dinner was easy. Dangerously so.

Mom asked Lucy about the event, and Lucy answered without hiding behind her title. Grandma Ruth complained that the arena coffee was weak, which offended my father because apparently coffee could be a family value. Grandpa Hal told Lucy about the roster he gave the coordinator, and Lucy went quiet again, eyes bright behind her glasses.

“That was kind,” she said.

Grandpa shrugged. “Kids like seeing their names.”

“Adults do too,” Lucy replied softly.

Dad paid at the register before anyone noticed him stand. By the time Mom said, “Fraser,” he was already sliding his wallet back into his pocket with the calm finality of a man who considered the matter settled.

Lucy straightened. “Mr. Burns, I can pay for mine.”

“No,” Dad said.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I know.”

She blinked.

I looked down into my water because the smile trying to get loose on my face was going to get me stabbed with a fry.

Dad came back to the table and pulled on his coat. “Enjoyed the event,” he said to Lucy. “You ran it well.”

She softened. “Thank you.”

If Dad noticed her fingers tighten around her napkin, he didn’t show it. But I did.

The whole damn day had been people seeing her. Sarah. The families. The Mighty Blades coordinator. My family. Me.

By the time we stepped back out into the snow, I was in trouble.

The cold hit clean after the heat of Matt’s, sharp enough to make everyone exhale white into the dark. Snow fell beneath the streetlights in slow silver pieces, softening the parked cars, the sidewalk, the red awning above us. Mom hugged Lucy first, careful but warm. Grandma Ruth followed, tucking Lucy’s coat collar closer around her throat and muttering something about Minnesota winters and fragile bones.

“I have fine bones,” Lucy said.

“Small ones,” Ruth replied.

Lucy laughed.

It went through me like a match strike.

Grandpa Hal gave her a nod. Dad told her to ride safe, which made Lucy smile again. My family moved toward Dad’s truck in a loose cluster of coats and voices and leftover warmth.