Mya Hanson reads Ironheart? This was so unexpected.

I was about to ask about some other comics, when Mya added, “That includes you, Del. I’m rooting for you, too. Get ready.”

“For what?”

There was commotion inside the church. Shanice, her red hood falling back on her shoulders, burst outside. “I think Bobby’s having an allergic reaction.”

A pin-striped Yankee uniform–wearing Ralph abandoned his post next to Kiera. Yelled, “Oh man, does he have his EpiPen?”

Kiera asked the children thrusting prize tickets at her to hang on. “What’s wrong with Bobby?”

Ralph climbed the church steps to check on his brother. Though . . .

He seemed a little lazy with it. Not the speed and urgency I’d expect from someone whose family member was having a potentially life-threatening allergic reaction. Before disappearing inside the church, Ralph twisted and we locked eyes.

He winked.

Concerned adults angled their bodies toward the building. While they did, I looked to the cotton candy machine.

Jameer wasn’t there.

A quick search, and I saw his Job robe flapping by a spotlight as he tore snaking ropes of prize tickets off a roll for kids who were less-than-scrupulous about how they earned their Harvest Fest currency. He aimed each ticket-rich child toward the table Kiera now manned solo, quickly overwhelming her. When he spotted me watching, he mouthed Go.

Mya nodded. “I’m fine. You should get over there.”

Hustling over to an outnumbered Kiera, I said, “Tell me what to do.”

Her chin cocked like she might object. Then a tiny prize-ticket millionaire demanded she sell him a mini Etch A Sketch. “All the items to your left are either five, ten, or fifteen tickets, depending. The bigger the item, the more it costs. I’ll cover the right side. Try to keep up.”

I did.

Bobby survived.

Shanice gave us periodic updates. Apparently someone came into the sanctuary with a Reese’s Cup, and Bobby thought he’d breathed in peanut butter fumes or something. It got panicky enough where Pastor Newsome thought an ambulance might be needed. People prayed. Miraculously, Bobby’s breathing returned to normal before anyone dialed 911.

“Folks still praying around him.” Shanice aimed a pointed look my way. “Probably will be for the rest of the night until his mom can get back to pick him up.”

“I am very, very thankful that he’s doing okay,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” She shifted her attention to Kiera. “We don’t want to mess up the night for the littles, so carry on.”

Kiera rededicated herself to her prize matron role, sorting swag and sweeping popcorn crumbs from her side of the table.

“Should I count the tickets?” I wanted to sound helpful. I crouched near the cardboard box housing the tangled ticket strips.

“That’s not necessary. We don’t really keep track. It’s just a way for the littles to learn something about value.”

“Oh.” I stood again. We were inches apart. We hadn’t been this close since the day I delivered the news about Taylor’s IG rant.