“It’s kind of like the midwestern version of a ziti, I suppose,” Meemaw answers. “One of us will come over and knock on your door when it’s all ready. No problem.”

Meanwhile, Crazytown reverses his truck and drives away like everything’s decided.

“I don’t need help. I’ve got this,” I insist, holding up my hands to put a stop to their madness.

I’m about to give them a stern talking to about listening to me and not Waylon—especially when he’s out of town.

But then the phone I’m still carrying in my hand vibrates before I can.

It's Antonio—actually making a phone call instead of texting!

Over the two years since I left Delaware, Ant’s DE Reyes gang has blown up into the Reyes cartel—mostly because Ant, proving what Waylon told me about him being a natural criminal leader, took every opportunity Waylon’s vouches afforded him and ran with them. He'd even been talking—in heavily coded language, of course—about expanding his cartel into other states during our monthly calls. But those calls were always at preset times. Something must be really wrong if he’s just calling me without warning.

I step further out onto the wrap-around porch out of Antonia’s earshot just in case her namesake has terrible news.

“Ant? Is everything okay?” I ask instead of saying hello.

“I mean, you tell me,” he answers. His voice sounds tired and irritated like he’s still waking up. “Just got off the phone with your man. He told me to tell you I would get on a flight and come out there if you didn't—and I'm just gonna repeat what he said here, hermanita—'Let somebody help you for once and take your ass to bed.’ What the hell is this even about?”

I shake my head, annoyed but not surprised that my husband would go this far. “I’m sorry, Ant. Waylon shouldn't have done that. You don't have to—

“If you're about to open your mouth to say I should try crossing that diablo loco you married again, I’m going to stop you right there. That's not happening.”

Ugh. I suppose not. And this is the perfect tactic on my crazy devil husband’s part.

The only thing that would make me accept all this help he's sent my way is the threat of having my brother inconvenience himself for no reason and get on at least two planes, then drive two hours from the Cedar Rapids airport just to follow through on one of Waylon's orders.

“Okay, fine,” I start to tell everyone. But when I turn around, there's nobody on the porch.

“They’re all inside!” Charlie calls up to me from his motorcycle. “Wouldn't want Waylon to think they didn't get right on doing what he said.”

No, it is patently obvious that nobody in this town, and quite a few other towns, wants that.