Grace gave her an approving nod. “A supervolcano, by definition, must eject at least 240 cubic miles of material and is capable of measuring a magnitude eight or more on the Volcanic Explosivity Index . . .”

While Grace gave her favorite end-of-the-world-erupting-volcano speech, I did my final count of participants. This would be another good week. We had a full house.

To offset Grace’s obsession with supervolcanos and the sudden destruction of civilization, I’d had the photograph of Mae Haas along with the second verse Scott Thomas sent me laminated, and I carried it with me every day. “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

The quiet purring of one of our electric shuttles announced a visitor. I handed the clipboard to the nearest counselor and strolled over to greet the newcomer. Bram stepped out.

My breath caught in my throat. My heart rate shot off the charts. I hadn’t seen him in over a year and a half.

He was as handsome as ever, maybe even more so with the touch of gray at his temple.

My face warmed. I was wearing the camp uniform of khaki shorts and polo shirt, my leg exposed for all to see.

He reached into the shuttle and pulled out a cane, then grinned at me.

Grace had stopped speaking and I realized all eyes were on us.

I moved closer. “Welcome, stranger.”

Holly couldn’t contain her joy at seeing her buddy. She ran over to him, jumped up, and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

Lucky dog.

I could hear the campers near me whispering.

“Who’s that?”

“I think it’s a movie star.”

“He’s hot for an old guy. He must be at least thirty.”

“Positively ancient. One foot in the grave,” I muttered and nodded toward a picnic table out of range of the teens. As I walked over, I quickly yanked the clip holding my hair up, fluffed it, and bit my lip to give it some color. A quick finger check found no leftover lunch stuck between my teeth. We sat across the table from each other, then both spoke at once.

“I thought you—”

“How are you—”

“You first,” I said.

“I left the sheriff’s department.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. The scandal when I turned over the evidence to have the sheriff’s son arrested as the serial arsonist pretty much meant we all had to leave. I figured the judge would be more lenient on Liam because he was the one who got help for all of us, but he still got a hefty sentence.”

“Did they ever figure out why he set the fires?”