“Might as well. ‘The Petition for Peace,’ Miller’s calling it. He wants a moratorium on building houses in Willard Park.” Nick lifted the edge of his lip in a snarl. “This town . . . It’s crazy, all the regulations here. What a joke! No sugar. No playground slides at too extreme an angle. Twenty miles per hour speed limit. No fun, in a word. What’s the point of living like a bunch of nuns?”

Grant tapped his fitness tracker, tap, tap, tap. “Hm?”

“If I want to live in a nice house, don’t I have a right?” Nick said.

“Why not?” Grant would have preferred Nick’s house—either one—to the dolls’ house they’d bought. He didn’t find it charming to have a bathroom so small you could hardly stand up straight in the shower, or a kitchen with a refrigerator that wasn’t much bigger than the one in his college dorm room. Suzanne was so taken with the town that she didn’t seem to care, but to him it felt like a demotion from their four-bedroom Colonial.

Adam pulled on Grant’s sleeve. He had to go to the bathroom. “Now.”

“Where?”

“Home,” Adam said.

“No time. My race is starting soon.”

“Lucy’s. She has lemon soap.”

Father and son walked toward the café. Adam was slow despite his supposed urgency. Grant hoisted him onto his back. “Did you eat breakfast? Maybe that’s why you don’t feel good.”

“I had a spinach-avocado smoothie,” Adam said, indignant.

A spray-painted sheet hung from the porch roof: SIGN THE PETITION FOR PEACE AND GET A FREE CIDER!

An overweight version of Ted, dressed as a baseball player, stood beside the real Ted on the porch. “Free cider!” the faux Ted called. “Get your free cider!”

Grant shook hands as Adam tore into the café.

“Do you want to sign this?” Ted’s brother said. He flapped a laminated information sheet in front of Grant.

Grant smiled. “Looks pretty professional.”

“I got fifteen signatures in the past hour,” Ted said. “Some people are probably doing it for the cider—that was Lucy’s idea—but it doesn’t matter. The point is to get the town council to consider the moratorium. Thanks for your help, by the way.”

Grant confirmed that Nick was out of hearing distance. “No problem.”

He eyed the races. The older kids’ run was over now. Allison was taking pictures—not of the kids, but of the parents, taking photos with their phones. All the kids got blue ribbons.

“I tell them the catch is, if we don’t do something, we’re going to end up with wall-to-wall houses. It’s Halloween. Scaring is allowed,” Ted said, chuckling at his own joke. “How are you enjoying Annie Get Your Gun rehearsals? Rumor has it you’re a real pro.”

Grant shook his head, modest. “I’m no pro.”

“I didn’t mean you were actually a pro.”