“Hey, angel,” the taller one said. Tufts of his shaggy blond hair flitted out beneath a camouflage trucker hat. He had on dark swimming trunks and a blue tank top that showed off his farmer’s tan.

“Hey,” Kennedy said, tilting her chin down and looking at them with her intense, dark-lined eyes. “What’s there to do around here?”

“Shopping.” Uncle Bran stepped around the side of the car and pointed toward the store. “That’s what there is to do around here. Move along, boys.”

Kennedy rolled her eyes, then waved to the boys, and they waved back. I don’t think they’d even noticed me standing there—me with my plain, straight, dark bister-colored hair, pale skin, and skinny body next to Kennedy with her shocking hair, jewelry, makeup, curves, travel mug of black coffee, and attitude. I felt like she was much more than just a year and a half older than me.

Inside the general store, each of us got a shopping cart and set out with our portion of the grocery list. Like every time I came here, I walked the aisles in slightly horrified fascination. There were the moose, deer, and antelope heads on the walls. Guns and ammunition to the left. Fishing poles and live worms to the right. Need a tent? It’s over there. Looking for the perfect fleece blanket? Check aisle three, right next to the paper towels. Saddles. Horse feed. Bear traps. Cozy pajamas. Art from the Wind River Indian Reservation next to framed lyrics of a Grateful Dead song signed by a guy named John Perry Barlow.

And of course, groceries.

I easily gathered up the stuff for taco night, then found Uncle Bran squinting at the ingredient lists on two jars of what looked like identical pasta sauce.

“I’m done,” I said, before remembering my language arts teacher asking if I was a potato. “I mean, I’m finished.”

“Great, do you want to help me find a few more things or wait in the car?”

Hmm . . . tomato sauce or alone time? “I’ll wait in the car.”

“I thought you might say that,” he said, smiling. He put one of the jars in his cart and the other back on the shelf, then fished the car keys out of his pocket and handed them to me. “Want me to bring you some fried gizzards?”

“What’s a gizzard?” I asked.

“You used to love them when you were a kid.”

I looked at him skeptically. “What is it?”

“Chicken,” he said, smirking.

“What part of a chicken?” I asked out of curiosity, not because I was actually considering eating whatever he was offering. I was about ten minutes from becoming a vegetarian after walking by the in-store butcher shop.

“The stomach part?” He laughed in his way, his shoulders jumping up and down, no sound coming out.