Damn this girl. Not only did she know her stuff, she was smiling at me now over the rim of her glass. The other two times we’d been this close together, our clothes had come off in a big fucking hurry.

Focus, Griffin.

“I could show you seven dollars. Why don’t you just see what their limit really is?”

“Well…”

Behind me, the door opened suddenly. “Griff?” my sister called. “Angelo just drove up with the new guy.”

“Be right there,” I said, taking a step back from Audrey. I felt oddly guilty, as if my sister had caught us doing something more furtive than discussing the price of cider.

You wish.

“Hi!” May said, catching a glimpse of Audrey. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” My sister’s voice was oddly bright. It was her snooping voice. I’d been hearing it her whole life.

“I thought we had a drug addict to meet,” I grumbled, setting down my glass and heading for the door. Nudging May and her big mouth out of the way, I watched the back door of Angelo’s old sedan open. “Excuse me a minute, Audrey.”

“Audrey?” My sister’s curiosity was in full swing. “I’m May, Griffin’s sister…”

I had no choice but to leave the two of them to chat. I hoped Audrey wouldn’t divulge our former entanglement, because everyone on the farm would be talking about it by dinnertime, even the dairy cattle. But in the grand scheme of things I had bigger problems.

One of them was climbing out of Angelo’s car.

What does an addict look like, anyway? To me he looked like any kid in his twenties. He had a serious face and a lot of tattoos, but so did half the men in Vermont. He was a little thin for farm work. But that was really the worst I could say about my first impression. He pulled a small duffel bag out of the trunk, then lifted his chin to look around.

“Hi,” I said, greeting our friend Angelo. Now here was a guy with a tough job. The next time I found myself grumbling about an invasion of apple maggot fly, I would try to remember that I could be hunting down ex-cons instead.

His dark skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes when he smiled at me. “Haven’t seen you at church lately,” he said, shaking my hand.

“What, now you’re moonlighting as Father Pat’s truant officer?”

He laughed. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”

“I’ll bet.” I turned my attention to the newcomer, offering my hand. “I’m Griffin Shipley.”

“Jude Nickel.” He had a surprisingly firm handshake. “Thank you for giving me a try. I need the job.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. Translation: we’re desperate. “If you don’t mind the outdoors, it’s not bad work.”

“Just spent three years in jail and rehab. I could use a little outdoors.”

His candor took me by surprise. “Well okay then. We pay twelve bucks an hour if you’re living on site, or fourteen if you’re a day worker. Lunch is free for everyone, but those who live with us get docked ten bucks a day total for breakfast and supper. The food is great, though, and we provide a lot of it. Like Guinness World Record quantities.”