“We’re never lost. I know exactly where we are.”

“—and we should be finished eating by now, but no, because you’re too indecisive.”

“I’m too sad to do magic.” He slumps in his seat.

But not too sad to read. We discover that Hall gets carsick when he reads while in motion, but he won’t stop. He switches on the interior light, refusing to put it down. I try to sneak a peek. “What are you reading?”

Hall shifts away. Says curtly, “Bettie, if you please.”

“Why can’t I look? Because of my mortal eyes?”

“Because you need to pay attention to the road, you reckless driver.”

He’s not wrong.

“It’s getting too heavy to see through. Can’t you teleport us to a Denny’s?”

He sighs. It’s a long, tortured sound, pickpocketed from Grandma’s bag of theatrics. I’m going to have to talk with him about mimicking her. “I’m too motion sick to do magic.”

I’m going to throttle him. We’re in a town called Bonnaroo or Barryboo, flares of streetlights streaking through the blizzard. I hunt for a good place to pull over, because I cannot sit in this car for one more second. Luckily, an exit presents itself, and as soon as the car’s in park, I jump out to walk off some steam.

Hall kills the engine, leaning across his seat to peer through the driver’s-side window. His jaw goes slack.

We’re in a half-filled parking lot, heavens violet and low, orange limning the skyline. The wonder transforming his features has a funny effect on me. A thin crack travels up my heart—I hear a breaking sound, like shattered glass.

There are tears in his eyes, big and shining with lamplight. “I’ve been all over the world,” he whispers, “but this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

We’re at a Cracker Barrel.

*

Chapter Eleven

A LONG, SKINNY FRONT porch with about twenty rocking chairs creaking in the wind is tacked onto the front of the restaurant. We step into a cozy, warmly lit shop rather than a dining area, which veers off to the left, separate from the retail section. It reminds me of stores from the Old West days, wood floor a gleaming blond, every nook and cranny teeming with Beanie Babies, Stewart’s Cream Soda, and jars of hard candy. Christmassy merchandise is in full bloom: expensive Rankin-Bass, Americana primitives utilizing a lot of burlap, pip berry wreaths, rustic wall hangings, quilts made by the Amish. Teller City shops carry a similar atmosphere, but this is . . . a lot. Hall and I can’t decide where to focus first, necks snapping as we gape all around like we’ve landed on another planet. “It smells like butter,” he breathes, closing his eyes. “And maple syrup. Mmmm.”

“I’m gonna go ask for a table. You stay over here and try not to alarm anyone.”

Hall isn’t listening. He’s poking at a cast-iron skillet filled with Moon Pies.

“Table for two?” I ask the hostess, leaning for a better peek into the dining area. There’s a lot going on in there, too. A bicycle and wagon wheels hang from the rafters. Every inch of wall space is adorned with old plates, black-and-white portraits of pioneers, deer heads, vintage tin signs, and banjos. Oil lamps are the centerpiece of every table, along with little triangular wooden blocks with pegs in them. Children are pulling the pegs out and sticking them back in, so it must be a game of some sort.