For restroom key, ask Mindy.

He thought that might be poor positioning for the restroom key alert.

‘They have a special,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ said Mule. ‘I love specials.’

‘How quickly you forget,’ said J.C. ‘You hate specials.’

He turned the menu over. ‘And look here. A new lunch item. Baked potato with cheese and chipotle.’

‘Baked potato with what?’ said Mule.

‘Cheese and chee-pote-lee,’ said J.C.

‘What kind of language is that?’

‘Here’s Ms. Basinger, you can ask her.’

‘I thought you weren’t servin’ anything people can’t pronounce,’ said Mule.

Wanda was wearing a cowboy hat and didn’t look too happy this morning. ‘Most people can pronounce chipotle.’

‘Not th’ people I know.’

‘That figures,’ she said, topping off their coffee.

‘So what is it?’

‘Smoked chili pepper.’

‘Smoked chili pepper,’ said Mule, aghast. ‘Why?’

‘Because I like it, Mr. Skinner. I used to live south of the border.’

‘Which border?’

He thought Wanda’s eyeballs were capable of rolling pretty far back.

‘Look who just flew in,’ said Mule.

Omer Cunningham walked over, grinning. He’d always liked Omer, a big, easygoing guy whose perpetual grin displayed teeth as big as dimes. ‘Piano keys!’ someone had said.

‘Any room for me, boys?’

‘Always,’ he said, indicating the chair next to his own.

‘How y’all doin’?’

‘Anybody we can,’ said Mule.

‘Nice day up there. Not bad down here, either.’

‘I see you flying south a lot,’ he said.

J.C. toweled his face with a paper napkin. ‘Yeah. Always headed south. You goin’ someplace special?’

‘Real special,’ said Omer. ‘There’s a halfway house in Holding. I take corporate clients up every two weeks to raise money for th’ place. A hundred and fifty bucks a head an’ I’ve got a waiting list. I fly in and out of a little grass strip down there.’

‘I’ve heard of that halfway house,’ he said. ‘They do a good job.’

‘It’ll break your heart,’ said Omer. ‘What I do don’t help much, but it keeps me out of trouble.’

Mule looked depressed. ‘If I had a plane, Fancy wouldn’t let me take it out of th’ yard.’

‘I hear your sister-in-law might run for mayor next time,’ said J.C.

‘She’s not talkin’ about it,’ said Omer. ‘I believe that’s a rumor.’

‘I might run a piece on that.’

‘How can you make news out of a rumor?’ said Mule.

‘People do it all the time, buddyroe.’

‘I don’t get it. Here’s your headline: Esther Cunningham Is Not Talking About Running for Mayor. That’s not news.’

‘I’ve been busy gettin’ my potatoes out of th’ ground,’ said Omer. ‘So what is news around town?’

‘Spray tan!’ said Mule.

J.C. let a word fly.

‘The biggest news in th’ high country is right here under our noses,’ Mule informed the table. ‘The revolutionary, widely popular, affordable way to look young and carefree!

‘You know what one of those booths can cost?’ he asked J.C. ‘Up to a couple hundred thousand. I’m not sayin’ that’s what Shirlene paid, but right here in Mitford, you’ve got Los Angelees goin’ on.’

‘Bull.’

‘An’ are you takin’ care of our own by helpin’ her get started in this town? No way. And listen to this, she’s takin’ care of our own by givin’ ten percent of every sale to the Children’s Hospital—and she’s a dadblame newcomer! That’s a story right there.’

Mule was ticked; this had obviously been building up.

‘Are you nuts?’ said J.C. ‘We announced she was coming. We gave her a nice intro. If she wants to educate th’ public, let her run a paid ad.’

‘She didn’t have to invest her future in Mitford, she could have set up business in . . . in . . .’

Mule was stuck for a town.

‘Charlotte!’ said Omer, naming the first town that came to mind. ‘Go, Panthers.’

‘Right. You ran a story on Feel Good changin’ its name, what’s th’ difference? No wonder people fight over th’ New York Times up at th’ bookstore, they’re starved to death for somethin’ to get their teeth into.’

Mule had never read the Times in his life; he was lining up all the artillery he could muster.

‘If y’all want out of here before th’ lunch crowd,’ said Wanda, ‘you need to tell me what you’re havin’, pronto.’

J.C. glowered at the proprietor. ‘What’s with th’ cowboy hat?’

She glowered back. ‘Yippee-ki-yay. Bad-hair day.’

‘You go, Omer.’

‘Two poached eggs, medium, please, ma’am; whole wheat toast—hold the butter—and turkey sausage.’

‘I’ll be darned,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’m having. Make it two.’

‘Make it three,’ said Mule.

‘I don’t have all day,’ said J.C. ‘Make it four.’

Mule gaped. ‘Amazing. That’s th’ first time in twenty years we’ve ordered th’ same thing!’

‘It’s th’ turkey sausage,’ said Wanda. ‘A no-brainer for this table.’

•   •   •

HE WAS ALWAYS STRUCK by how much Sammy looked like Dooley. The optician said he was definitely ready for an upgrade on his prescription, but still . . .

There was nothing to say.

He drove; Sammy looked out the passenger window and jiggled his right leg. The old, inflamed scar on Sammy’s cheek, the fresh cut on his forehead—the boy’s face was raw history.

Sammy Barlowe knew right from wrong, no question about it. Yet he was pressing them all to the mat, especially the old guy he couldn’t make angry enough to come after him.

Lew’s wrecker was parked around back, the Mustang still in tow. He wasn’t prepared for seeing it, not at all. Dear God.

Sammy breathed a four-letter word, which pretty much expressed his own astonishment.

‘Is it true you told Chief Guthrie you don’t care if you live or die?’

‘Yeah.’ Sammy spit into the gravel.

‘I care that you live. Harley cares. Kenny cares. Cynthia cares. Dooley cares. Your little brother and sister care. But you don’t care—you can go either way?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Baloney.’ He turned and walked to the front of the station. ‘What do I owe?’ he asked Lew.

‘Here’s your bill, it’s a whopper.’

‘I’ll say.’

‘Tough haulin’ it up th’ bank. That’s a ruined piece of machinery, all right. When I seen it, it scared me pretty bad, I thought it was you. Anyway, it’s hid out back ’til I can get shed of it. No use for bad news to get around worse’n it has to.’

‘Amen.’

‘Here’s all th’ stuff that was in it.’ Lew handed over a plastic bag. ‘Me an’ my wrecker’s seen a few close calls, but this broke me out in a sweat.’

Sammy walked up, shrugged. ‘It ain’t nothin’.’

Lew shot Sammy a cold look. ‘God is good, but he ain’t Santy Claus. You definitely won’t be gettin’ another chance like that.’

•   •   •

FOUR HOURS ON THE MONEY, including a packed lunch they ate in the cab with the heater going.

Sammy had worked hard, they’d made it happen. They were in under the wire of a cold front moving in tomorrow. He felt a certain lifting of his spirit.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Come in with me.’

‘I’m too d-dirty t’ come in.’

‘Come in anyway,’ he said.

‘I don’t want nothin’ to do with hospitals.’

‘Come in anyway,’ he said, agreeable.

They walked along the hall to the men’s toilet and washed up, then headed to ER. There went Dr. Young, living up to his name by literally racing along the hall.

‘We’ve been working on the hedge out front, we’re pretty dirty,’ he said to the charge nurse, Robin Presley. ‘Who can we see today?’

‘Father Tim! Thank goodness you’re here. It’s a boy from Dyson County.’

Robin wiped her eyes. ‘He’s th’ age of my baby brother. We admitted him a little bit ago, it’s very bad. Is your friend comin’, too?’

Sammy looked suddenly older, the way Dooley used to look when he felt threatened. ‘I ain’t d-doin’ it.’

‘Let’s go, y’all,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s real busy in there, so stand back. And no contact with th’ patient.’