I hold the money toward him, but his eyes are searching mine. I slide my fingers up to the hat covering my stubby patch of hair. His gaze follows. I drop my hand. “Here.”

“That’s too much.”

“Actually, it’s thirty-eight cents short, but I don’t have change.”

He frowns. “I never gave you a receipt.”

“I remember what everything cost. Take it.”

He slowly folds the bills and slides them into his pocket. “You need help with that water?”

Ten minutes later he’s following me out of the Food Mart, a jug in each arm. After loading them in the back of the truck, he says, “So, Bronco. I have an idea.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You’re obviously not from around here—”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Okay, yeah.” He laughs a little. “You been to the Mad Moose yet?”

“I’ve been pretty much nowhere.”

“I thought I’d go into town and grab a sandwich. Join me.”

I had been planning to head back, but it’s not like I have a full afternoon planned. And aside from the Fly Shop, Food Mart, and gas station, I’ve never been anywhere in town.

I shrug. “Sure.”

His face lights up, and I decide there must be some woefully slim pickings around here to warrant a smile like that.

He unties his green apron on the way to his Cherokee, then gets the door for me. It’s a whole three-quarters of a mile to the restaurant on the public dock where resident feral ducks dart between outdoor tables fighting over the intermittent dropped French fry. It’s warm enough that the place is half full. He pulls my chair out for me, and as I sit down I realize this is the most people I’ve been around since my arrival over a month ago.

“Were you really coming here before I showed up?” I glance at him over my menu.

“Nope.”

We order, and he sits back and regards me. He’s the kind of ruggedly pretty that makes me wonder if I went for his type before—and if that’s what landed me here. I remember exactly one date from my past, if it can even be called that, when some kid’s mom dropped us off at the mall with thirty dollars to see a movie in sixth grade. I don’t remember the name of the movie—or the kid.

“How do you like Maine?” he says.

“It’s quiet. You live in town?”

“I’m renting a studio over Charlie’s down the street. It’s not bad. I basically hear whoever’s playing at the Dropfly on the weekend for free. So, Bronco, do you have a name?”

“Emily. Porter,” I add.

“Emily,” he says, trying it out. And then he leans forward, hand extended. It’s warm, his grip firm. “Luka Novak.”

“So what brought you to Greenville?” I ask, fiddling with a straw wrapper.

“The fishing.”

“Really?”