He cringed. “Must you mutilate the English language?”

“I must.”

“Well, it’s fine. It’s fun. Poe’s great . . .”

“But?”

“But is someone still great if they know they’re so great?”

“You’re kind of asking the wrong girl,” I said, finally drawing a smile from my brother.

“I suppose in the end, he is still only human. And a pretty decent one, at that.”

“One of the best,” I agreed. “After Dex.”

“Yeah,” Reg muttered. “I just don’t see why he has to be the best at everything.”

A sudden thought churned my stomach. “It will be weird, won’t it? If they go back to . . . when they go back to being our food?”

Reg pretended to think it over, a teasing smile on his face. “I don’t know. They’re pretty tasty right now.”

“Agreed.”

“Downright delicious.”

“Okay, don’t make it weird.”

We joked and jabbered about boys and school and dates and debates for another hour. But we didn’t talk much about the hearing, and every time I brought it up, Reg did a neat little verbal side step, asking me about Dex or hoopla planning, even though I’d already spilled every detail of my date and he could not actually care less how many floats were in the parade.

Reg and I could always talk about everything, but now, no matter how much we talked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were some things still left unsaid.

I have been to hundreds of places on this planet, including the most glamorous cities and the most extravagant palaces. But there may be no better place on earth than tucked under a warm flannel blanket, bumping along a dirt road in the back of a flatbed truck, curled up next to Dexter O’Shea. I didn’t even mind the sharp needles of straw poking me in the rear from the hay bale I was sharing with Dex.

For our second date, he’d brought me to his favorite orchard, where we’d already tried hot cider and bobbed for apples. (Well, Dex had bobbed. My makeup was on point and not waterproof, so I passed.) Now, we were wrapping up a long hayride that I didn’t want to end, but Dex insisted that apple picking was the last, best part. I was just grateful we were there on a weekday, after school, otherwise he might have dragged me through the haunted house the farm ran on the weekends.

The truck trundled to a stop, and Dex hopped off first, holding out his hand to help me down. I landed on the dirt next to him, and he pointed to a large sign on the side of a nearby barn.

MORGANA FARMS

“Same company that bought our farm. They own a lot of land around here.”

“I thought you were angry about that,” I puzzled. “But you don’t mind coming here?”