Mrs. Malacek and Mrs. Mason went very still. They fixed Joel with stares so fervid he felt a flush creep over his cheeks. He decided to test a theory. “What do you think would happen if Dylan decided he didn’t want to play football in college?”

His mother’s head snapped up from her phone. The two women raised their eyebrows.

“But we love Dylan too much for him to quit,” Mrs. Malacek said brightly.

Mrs. Mason laughed and set Raul the terrier trembling again. “I think this town would kill him if he tried.”

“Jesus,” Joel said as he and his mother made their way toward their seats, leaving Mrs. Malacek and Mason to make a run on the convenience stand. “Since when did you hang out with the skinny moms?”

“Since they started calling me. Are you saying I weren’t always skinny?”

Joel marveled at the people around him. Here was Mr. Lott, the cartoonish man in the overalls and bow tie who somehow still ran the county’s oldest hardware store, followed by his tall wife and her permanent scowl. Here was the girl who had dropped out of Joel’s class to raise the boy who now trailed behind her with a Nintendo in his face. Joel had thought more people would have left this town. He couldn’t imagine what kept them here.

“How can nothing change in ten years?”

“You mean you didn’t notice on the way in?” Paulette arched an eyebrow. “The old church burned down. It was the talk of the summer.”

A little chill prickled in the back of his scalp. Sure enough, when Joel turned to look down the highway he saw that the electric cross of the Bentley First Baptist Church’s steeple, the white cross that had once burned bright enough to be seen for miles, was gone.

“Then thank God summer’s over.”

His mother gave him a patient look. “I figured you’d see it as an improvement.”

A roll of thunder made the pilings of the metal stands rattle. Paulette pulled two green ponchos from her bag, a bottle of water, a sack of trail mix. They made their way to the front row, where two empty spaces awaited them, not fifteen feet from the sideline.

Joel checked his phone, swiped away emails, saw he’d received a message from his brother. It was a selfie from inside the locker room—Joel would recognize those green cinder blocks anywhere—with Dylan and two other boys grinning in their pads. KILLING IT, the caption read, and nothing more.

“I thought that was you,” said a voice to Joel’s right, and a moment later Joel let out a laugh of surprise. It was Wesley Mores, a man who had been a year older than Joel in school and one of the few football players who had always treated him decently.

The two men embraced. Wesley’s broad back was still stiff with muscle.

“I was wondering if you’d moved back to town,” Joel said.

“Back? I hardly left. I teach science at the junior high.”