Another woman introduced herself as Clarke, and she was visibly nervous. I estimated she was the youngest in the bunch of four women and two men. Most appeared to be my age, but Clarke didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

Four of us were out-of-towners, I learned. Mitch, the only other guy, had come all the way from Fairbanks, Alaska. He was also very happy to reassure Clarke that everything would be fine.

I scratched my eyebrow and looked around us, not really interested in making new friends. I was hungry and wanted to eat. I hoped we’d get to eat what we cooked today. Unless I set my meal on fire somehow.

Was August gonna stay hidden until we started?

Bethany had walked over to her own station and was currently trying to look at all the ingredients in the wooden crate without actually touching anything. We hadn’t been told we couldn’t go through it, though.

I folded my arms over my chest and peered down into my own crate. The first thing I saw was a clear container that someone had used a Sharpie to write “Lard” on. Welcome to the fucking South. They didn’t mess around.

Very few vegetables. Some crisp-looking lettuce, two pickles in their own plastic container, a big yellow onion, and garlic. The crate was heavy on carbs and fat, and nobody would find me complaining. A bottle of oil, butter, pasta, cheese… Some other shit too. A lot of spices.

By now, Bethany was certain we were going to make hot chicken.

I was certain I was gonna die if I didn’t get to eat soon.

If I was really quick, I could run over to the Midwest Way and try cheese curds from Wisconsin.

At this point, I’d even buy a shitty Chicago hot dog, and everyone knew those bastards were fucking crazy with their toppings.

Tomatoes on a hot dog…

“Are you thinkin’ about me?” August’s low voice tickled my ear and caused me to flinch sideways. Thank Christ, the other participants had scattered to their stations.

August smirked lazily, and I chuckled and willed my heart to calm the fuck down.

Then I had to give him a once-over because someone had changed clothes. He wore a white chef’s jacket and black pants now, an upgrade because it beat the Yankees hoodie he’d worn earlier.

“Lookin’ good, Chef.” I stuck my hands down into my pockets and smiled. “Bethany wants to know if we’re making hot chicken.”

“She asked me twice at the barbecue,” he laughed. “In a few minutes, she’ll find out that, yeah, we are.” He nodded toward the tent he must’ve come from. “My staff is makin’ final prep on the chicken right now, because Bethany ain’t goin’ home with the recipe for the brine or the seasoning.”