“We’ll take it from here, Ms. Cowan.” Bert holds his hand out to shake hers, but she ignores him. She’s squinting at the building as we all unload. I say “building,” but now that I’m closer, I think technically it’s what you would call a shack, like the kind they serve snow cones from at the beach. The walls are big sheets of plywood nailed together and painted white like the fence. There’s a counter, but it’s taller than I can see over. Bert runs around the back and pops up behind the counter like a puppet. He unrolls a canvas sign and it falls down the front.

I read in bright blue letters: BILL AND WILL’S PUTT-PUTT EMPORIUM.

“Ta-da!” Coralee says, and twirls in a circle. “Miniature golf is the perfect anti–Valentine’s Day activity, right?!”

Mom shakes her head.

“Ladies,” Bert says, and passes down golf clubs.

“Bill and Will?” I say.

“My twin brothers. They built the place.”

“Your parents named your brothers Bill and Will?”

He shrugs. “They didn’t know they were having twins. They only picked out one name.”

We choose our ball colors out of a bucket. I’m purple. Coralee’s red. Bert is blue.

While we wait for Bert to unlock the gate, Mom leans over me and taps my jacket where I’ve got my phone. Her breath makes a cloud. “I’ll be here if you need me. You call me when you’re done or if you get too cold.”

I nod, but when she tries to stuff mittens in my pocket, I roll away. Everybody knows you can’t play miniature golf with mittens.

The gate creaks open and Bert waves us inside with his club over his shoulder.

“Let’s do this!” Coralee yells, and races through.

It’s a proper eighteen-hole course and it’s kind of amazing. It’s got a Western theme. There are holes that look like saloons and deserts and a train filled with gold. There’s even one with a horse’s tail that swishes back and forth in front of the hole when you turn on the switch.

“I can’t believe your brothers did all this.”

“They’re on scholarship for engineering,” he says, like of course it’s totally normal to build a full-size miniature golf course in your spare time. I’m beginning to think Bert is the most normal one in his family.

“Me first!” Coralee yells.

“Hold on. Hold on.” Bert pulls a tiny scorecard and pencil out of his white jacket pocket. He looks like the guy on the front of the popcorn box. Or Colonel Sanders. “We have to make it official.”

“Whatever,” Coralee says, and drops her ball.

I smile. They have no idea.