Carly sat by her uncle at dinner.
TJ was holding court at the head of a picnic table, his foot propped up on a five-gallon plastic bucket of foam mix that had been dragged over. It was a fine evening, warm but no longer hot. Twenty or so people ranged around the scattering of tables. The blue sky and dry air said that the arrows on the roadside fire-danger-level signs weren’t going to be moved down from red anytime soon.
Betsy had served up her famous baked potato bar, being loud and flirty the whole time, a skill Carly had never acquired. She shouldn’t have tromped on the new guy so hard. After all, he rappelled down to save her uncle, not reluctantly but rather demanding to be lowered immediately. That he kept looking at her as if she were a pinup girl had ticked her off, though. That
