“Never mind,” I sigh. “Maybe you can tie your shoes in the car?”

He shakes his head.

“No, I’ve got them. It’s fine.”

We get in the car finally, and drive out towards the main square where the market’s on. They’re still forecasting snow later and although the day is bright, you can almost feel the ice in the air.

“Radio?” I say to Sam, and he nods.

“It’s set to WGNA,” I say. “But you can change it to something you prefer.”

He does, after grimacing a little at the country music. I glance over as he fiddles with the dial and notice how his fingers are all chapped at the tips.

“Sam, your hands—does that always happen in winter?”

He moves his hand away, looking self-conscious.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It just happens.”

“I have some cream at home,” I say. “Remind me to get it for you when we go back.”

“I don’t want your cream,” he snaps, and I stare at him, wondering where this outburst is coming from.

“Nobody’s forcing it on you, Sam,” I say calmly. “I’m not trying to be your mom here or anything. I just want you to be comfortable.”

He shrinks into his hoodie, turning away from me to stare out the window.

“Sorry,” he mumbles after a while, so quiet I can barely hear it.

We make it to the market in time for the organic, outdoor version of Supermarket Sweep. All the usual stalls are out—only a couple have started to pack up—and I wave to Dinah’s sister, who’s at her usual stall in the far corner. Lottie went off to some culinary course a while back, and nowadays has her own stand with homemade breads and baked goods. She does this raisin twist bread that Oliver likes a lot.

“Hey, Lottie.” I go over with Sam in tow. “This is my nephew, Sam. He’s staying with us for a few days.”

She smiles at him.

“Hey, Sam. Tell your aunt to buy you some treats for later, okay? I think you might like the apple turnovers.”

I shake my head.

“You’re a hard sell.” It’s all in jest; she knows I never pass her stall without buying something. “So,” I say, “how were your holidays?”

Lottie gives me the rundown, which is more or less what I’d already heard from Dinah, and then tells me that business is going well: she’s even looking at getting her own pop-up store on Main Street, since apparently the woman who owns Dinah’s florist store also leases the small building next door.

“Speaking of which, have you been talking to Dinah recently?”

“Just yesterday,” I say, wondering if she’s driving at something. Dinah and I talk all the time, so it’s hardly unusual.

Lottie nods, looking slightly flustered.