We lined up behind the wooden barricade, milling and chatting. Glancing over at the squad car that blocked the west end of the bridge, I saw Bart Mallick was on duty. Since I hadn’t been one of his favorite people before the whole Rainbow’s End incident, I didn’t bother to greet him, but I ran into my mom’s friend Sandra Sweddon, there with her daughter Terri, who was now Terri Dalton, and made a point of introducing Sinclair to them.

At nine o’clock, the town crier issued a proclamation announcing the start of the annual Pemkowet Bridge Walk. Everyone streamed around or over the barricade. About twenty yards in there was a guy holding a sign reading THE FAINT OF HEART SHOULD TURN BACK NOW!

“You know this is absurd, right?” Sinclair asked, walking his bike beside me.

“Uh-huh. Aren’t you glad you didn’t miss it?”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

At the halfway point, just under one tenth of a mile, the Pemkowet Historical Society had set up a refreshment station with Dixie cups of Gatorade. I took one for tradition’s sake, even though I think the stuff’s vile.

“Hey.” Sinclair downed his Gatorade and tossed the cup in the trash. He patted the handlebars of his bike. “Hop up. I’ll ride you the rest of the way.”

I gave him a dubious look. “You sure about that?”

Straddling his bike, he balanced on the pedals, making it stand upright and motionless, then went a few inches forward and backward before returning to perfect stillness. “Sure. C’mon, hop up.”

“Oh, fine.”

Yes, it was totally showing off, but you know what? It was fun. Sinclair rode as slowly as possible to keep pace with the walkers, weaving only a little with the added weight of me on the handlebars. The sun was shining and a slight breeze ruffled the surface of the river. It was a holiday and it felt like it.

“Did you really like that Etta James song I played for you?” I asked Sinclair over my shoulder.

“Yeah, I did.”

“We should go to the Bide-a-Wee Tavern tonight,” I said. “They have live jazz and blues, and there’s always a big bash for the end of the season. It’s mostly locals, too, since a lot of summer people and tourists leave this afternoon.”

“Sounds great.” The bike wobbled slightly. “Oops.”

“You’re sure?” I glanced back at him again. “I mean, we didn’t have plans or anything.”

“Hey, I made you sit through the Mamma Jammers. It’s only fair,” he said, then laughed at the expression on my face. “I’m kidding! It sounds like fun.”

“Okay. Call me when you get home, and I’ll pick you up.”

“Deal.”