Earlier, we went to the doctor’s office to have his temporary cast removed and replaced with a soft cast and walking boot. Macon made an offhand complaint about being cooped up for too long, so I told him to come shopping with me. For all his whining, he wasn’t keen on going out in public. Which had me asking if he was a chicken or simply another lazy, pampered star.

At those fighting words, his nostrils flared. “Fine. But we’re taking North with us.”

“Right.” I cringed, feeling like a heel for teasing him. “Security. I just assumed since we’re going somewhere unplanned . . .”

“Things can get out of hand when you least expect it,” he said tightly.

“I’m sorry I called you chicken.”

“But not that you called me lazy?”

“Asks the man who needs his smoothie brought up to him.”

A brief gleam of acknowledgment lit his eyes before fading. “I know it sucks, Delilah. But this is your life now.”

My life. Inexorably tied up with his.

All in all, our tentative truce is going as expected. Which is to say, we still find ways to squabble like chickens going after the last piece of grain.

Now, however, he’s like a puppy finally let out of his pen.

“It smells so fresh here. Where do you want to go first?” He has a cane—mahogany with an amber top—that he loves because it looks like the one from Jurassic Park. I told him that if he wants to channel his inner John Hammond, he really should be wearing a white suit as well. Unfortunately, he didn’t go for it.

“It’s your first time here.” I put on sunglasses so I can see without squinting. “Have at it.”

Smiling wide and joyfully, he takes another survey of the place, then heads for a stall selling fruit and inspects a mango. North keeps an unobtrusive distance away. They warned me that when we went out on the fly like this, North wouldn’t be our friend. He’d be working, constantly scanning for trouble.

“Can I have a sample?” Macon asks the guy manning the stall, a young hipster with a full beard and a tattoo that says “Grow It Green” along his inner forearm.

“Have one on the house, Arasmus.”

Upon hearing the name of his character, Macon does a double take as if he’s gauging how intense this potential fan might be. Then his easy good-ole-boy smile is in place. “Kind of you.”

That smile used to grate on me like nails ambling down a chalkboard. But there is no denying its efficacy. When Macon smiles like that, people react.

“Thanks . . . ?” Macon trails off in question.

“Jed,” the seller replies as he takes a mango and begins to prep it, slicing the fruit along each side of the pit and then scoring a crosshatch along each half.