Mack Perry looks at me seriously from across the table. The rising sun blares in through the window behind him and he’s tapping a pen against a stack of papers. “You’re sure you want to do this, Riggins?”

Roman and I are in his hotel room and Mack is a little hard to take seriously in the t-shirt and basketball shorts he’s wearing, but his eyes are all business.

“Yeah. Give me the pen,” I say.

Mack tilts his head and then nods, sliding the stack of papers and the pen to me. He jabs in a few spots, indicating the places I need to sign. A few squiggles of the pen later, It’s done. Simple as that. Roman smiles up at me.

“Can I sign, Daddy?”

“Not now Bud,” I say, struggling to find the energy to smile. I settle for ruffling his hair and looking down at the stack of papers, wondering if I’m the biggest idiot in the world or if I’m doing the right thing. Fuck. I really wish I knew.

“I’ll hold on to these, okay Riggins? ‘Til tonight. That way if her plan works you can call me and I’ll just toss these in the shredder.”

I stand, leading Roman toward the door. “Thanks, Mack. Somehow I doubt you’ll be hearing from me.”

Roman and I pull up to the strawberry shortcake tent Sandra and the girls are setting up. There’s a big oven and a huge prep table already sitting in the grass and the oven is linked to a portable generator by some precarious looking extension cords held together partly by duct tape.

“I have some cords in the truck that won’t blow you up,” I say, kicking at the cord.

“Good to see you too,” Sandra quips. She looks beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed and I can see the hope in her face. She thinks this is going to work.

“So,” I ask. “Who can I talk to about buying some shortcake?”

“You don’t even have any strawberries.”

I put a hundred dollar bill down on the prep table. “No change.”

“Reid…” she says.

“Take the man’s money!” says Lauren. “Hold onto it incase he doesn’t pay child support.”

I quirk an eyebrow at Sandra, who looks away, cheeks growing redder. “Something you’re not telling me?” I ask.

“No, she just knows there’s a possibility. Trying to keep something from Lauren is harder than keeping a secret from the inquisition. She’s crafty.”

I chuckle.

“She told me too, sorry Reid,” says Jennifer, who pops out from behind the big oven.

“Yeah, well, Roman and I will go get that cord and bring it back.”

“You didn’t even take any shortcake,” Sandra complains.

I smirk. “How much are you charging?”

“Four dollars a setup.”

I wince. “So that’s, what… Like two or three thousand you need to sell?”

Sandra swallows hard. “I wasn’t going to get the calculator out or anything, but well, yeah. Probably around there.”

I spend the next twenty minutes safety proofing the ridiculous setup Sandra and the girls have put up. I replace the faulty extension cords, give the generator some oil it desperately needs, tweak the pressure settings so the thing doesn’t explode, and I shove a two by four under one end of the oven to keep it level on the uneven grass beneath. It’s not perfect, but I don’t have to worry a freak accident is going to wind up getting Sandra hurt. Or any of the others, for that matter.

The Francis’ have set up their little festival as a real tourist attraction. They have the whole Francis brood from two feet tall to six seven, in the case of Vaughn Francis, out directing traffic. They also make sure to plan this little shindig right before a big college game just a few cities over. All the families heading up the day before see the signs, the Francis farm isn’t far off the road, yeah. Big bucks. They even have it set up where families who’ve gathered their allotted basketful of strawberries are funneled out one exit, forcing them to pass through the gift shop on the way back to their cars, where they can buy souvenirs, t-shirts, and anything else the Francis’ can think up.

I’ve always hated it. The locals call it lookie-lou season, because all day and for most of the day tomorrow, there will be minivans and SUVs crawling through town while screaming kids in the back fight over who gets to watch what on the seat-mounted screens. It’s like a fucking plague, and until this year, I’ve always wished some kind of natural disaster would divert traffic and spare us all the annoyance. Now… Now I’m looking at every football fanatic and tourist like dollar signs that might let Sandra save her dream. And I’m hoping with everything I have that it works.

I drag Roman with me inside the strawberry patches and let him watch me a couple times before I let him try to snag some customers. Our first target is a woman and her son. She looks about thirty and her son is just a little older than Roman. I gently tap the back of Roman’s chest with my hand and groan loudly.

“Boy, oh boy,” I shout. “I thought the strawberries were good on their own. But once I put them on that fresh made shortcake with the handmade whipped cream? Didn’t get any better. Right, little guy?”

Like the complete badass that my son is, Roman belches as if on command, clutching his stomach. He grins up at me and I smile down, hugging him to my side.

I act like we’re heading back to get more strawberries, but listen closely as the little boy starts talking his mom into letting them get shortcake when their done.

“We will, honey. We will,” she says to him.