“I’m just not ready.”

She scrunched her nose. I’m just not ready felt like such an understatement. She was more than just not ready to face her dad’s reaction to the big news—she was terrified.

“Are you going to call the doctor at least?”

“Maybe later.” She gave a half smile as she watched Steve’s tail flick back and forth while staring down the wayward Cheerio. “I was thinking we could walk down to the Food Farm this morning.”

“Walk?”

“I’ll give you the grand tour of Moose Creek. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Okay.” He followed her to the front door, where their shoes and coats waited. “But don’t you want to drive?”

She opened the door and took a deep breath. “No way.”

The air here was different from California. Thinner, for one thing, and drier. But also fresher. Santa Clara always smelled vaguely of an adolescent’s bedroom that had been shut up for too long. Moose Creek smelled like ice water and Ponderosa pines. Unless the wind blew in just the right direction and carried the earthy scent of Dirk Reichman’s cows into town.

They headed west on the dirt road, labeled Lewis and Clark Avenue but referred to by locals as Second Street. Bea breathed the familiar air, studied the familiar houses, and anchored herself on the familiar hard-packed dirt beneath her feet. Yet she couldn’t deny an unfamiliar feeling. The feeling of being a stranger. She’d been gone only two years. How could Moose Creek no longer feel like home?

Jeremy scanned the street. “It’s quiet.”

She didn’t answer. It had been hard to get used to the constant noise and bustle when she first moved away. Cities were so loud. But that’s what Jeremy had grown up with.

An old four-wheeler manned by an even older driver puttered by at a slow and steady pace.

Bea raised one hand. “Good morning, Earl.”

Earl nodded as he passed, his shaggy white hair streaming behind him.

“That guy looks like he’s about a hundred years old,” Jeremy said.

“Ninety-three.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened. “And he’s still allowed to drive?”

“He’s not really driving.”

“Um, yes. He is. He’s driving a four-wheeler.”

Bea shrugged. “He likes to make the rounds. Just be glad we weren’t here a couple months ago. In the summer, he rides around in cutoff jeans with no shirt on.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “And the police aren’t concerned?”

It had never crossed Bea’s mind that the police should worry about what Earl was up to. She’d seen Officer Darryl pull Earl’s four-wheeler over many times but only for a chat. “After everything he’s been through in his life, I think the police figure he can do just about whatever he wants.”