“You’re right. My problem, not Jack’s. I will try to own my own shit. Because who else would want it,” she added as the squirrel bounded away. “Okay, we’re here for Gary. Focus.”

Safely behind the church, out of sight from the road and what seemed like the entire population of Carter gathered out in front of the ex house of bears—minus those who’d managed to cram inside—Charlie settled her guitar strap and decided she really needed to learn more songs on the penny whistle. A penny whistle weighed next to nothing, it could be used as a splint should the circumstances demand, and a simple thing like freeing a couple of hundred teddy bears wouldn’t throw it out of tune. As she worked to bring her B and G back, she swallowed and realized gargling glass had been an accurate observation.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to sing in the immediate future.

A moment later, she walked out of the graveyard like it was the first time she’d done it, fingerpicking Dan Mangan’s “Not What You Think It Is.” The bearded man who’d spoken to her before she’d gone inside to free the bears still stood by the fabric art stall, so she hummed a little reinforcement toward him.

People had begun to pick the fallen bears up off the lawn, clearly believing they weren’t disturbing a crime scene and that they, personally, were immune to shards of glass. Charlie could hear multiple sirens coming from the south. Given the number of nicks and cuts she could already see on the people posing for cell phone pictures, not to mention the loud argument about the proper way to perform CPR coming from inside the house, emergency responders would be too busy to immediately worry about what exactly had gone on.

Once she broke out onto the open road, Charlie stopped playing, shook her thumb pick off into her pocket and tucked her guitar back into her gig bag. She’d always thought that approaching a stage with an instrument out reeked of desperation.

The band, tethered to the stage by their instruments, were watching the crowd, not her, and she was watching Gary, not the rest of the band, so she was less prepared than she might have been when the keyboard player launched himself off the stage.

“Charlie? Charlie Gale?”

“Toby! Toby Sum . . .” Before she could finish, Charlie found herself caught up in a hug that drove the air out of her lungs. She’d hooked up with Toby Summers while they were playing in Further Demented, a Montreal band with delusions of punk revival. He was tall, talented, and he made her laugh, but when the band broke up seven years ago, so had they. No regrets.

“What are you doing in Vermont?” Toby demanded, steadying her when she wobbled upon release.

“Passing through,” she gasped. “As one does.”