“Go on,” he said, his voice gruff. This time, at least, he had the excuse of two solid weeks of breathing smoke outside Chelan as the cause. Even though he’d been doing a lot better job of slowing down and putting his—and Bubbles’s—health first, he had a tendency to sound like he’d gargled rocks for a few days afterward. “It’s not a big deal.”

His mom opened her mouth as if to argue, but she was forestalled by Dawn’s shout of laughter.

“Is this supposed to be a shawl?” she asked as she held the deformed lump of red yarn to the sky. “Or a…dish towel?”

“It’s a scarf,” he retorted. “And it took me three weeks to make, so you’d better wear it every day.”

Lila had managed to extract hers from the packaging and joined in her sister’s laughter. “I think mine has an armhole. Or a breezeway. That’ll come in handy, seeing as how it’s ninety-five degrees outside right now.”

“Four weeks. That one took me four weeks.” He paused. “I sent one to your parents in Greece too. Your mom promised to take it to all the important sites. I think she’s finally starting to like me.”

“Oh, she hates you,” Dawn said. “You took her precious darling.”

“She loves you,” Lila countered. “You took her precious darling.”

Harrison just shook his head and gestured for them to put their garments on. He wasn’t sure he’d ever understand the strange relationship that existed in a family as intimate and loving as this one, but he was getting closer.

The two sisters looked ridiculous, of course, and not just because it was the dead of summer and the need for handmade knitwear was slim. No matter how many times he tried to get the hang of knitting, or how well he thought he was doing at the time, he always ended up with a variation of the same awkward scarf.

Poor Bubbles would never get the full wardrobe he’d promised her—which was probably just as well, since the women in Sophie’s knitting circle had taken it upon themselves to outfit her in every style and color under the sun. They loved that damn dog.

He was starting to think they loved him a little too. It was a nice feeling.

“Is mine a scarf too?” his mother asked. She still hadn’t opened her package. She held it against her chest like something precious, a misty look in her eyes. “You made me a scarf?”

“It’s not a very good one,” he said. This time, his voice was gruff with emotion, but he didn’t try to fight it. He and his mom weren’t close yet, but he liked to think they were making progress. “But I like knitting. It’s weirdly calming.”