The line is longer than I've ever seen it before. It wraps all the way around the block, and halfway down Main Street. The dumpster out back overflows with brown paper we ripped off the storefront. The boilers hum, online once again. The scent of fresh bagels wafts through the store, and the refrigerator brims with gallons and gallons of M&M swirl cream cheese.

Today is a message that Maple Ridge is going to soar into the future, and no one is going to stop it.

"I just love these swirls," crows Mrs. Abraham, Hunter's old math teacher. She hands me a $10, enough to cover a dozen bagels and a half-pint of rainbow cream cheese. I punch her purchase into the register, which dings and shoots the cash drawer out like a rocket. "I'm so glad you're open again. I'll be back tomorrow. Good luck, honey. And your man is looking fine as hell."

I blush at the shameless old lady and look over my shoulder at Hunter. He's manning the espresso machine, frothing a cup of hot milk. We haven't talked about us since the night he came back, but for the first time in weeks I feel hopeful again. About the café, about him, about me.

"Kick that old man's ass," shouts someone deep in the line. It seems like each customer I serve has something nice to say about the shop. They're telling me it's breathing new life into the town. And for the first time I can remember, people are talking about Maple Ridge like it's some cool, quirky little town like Portland instead of a backwater village with nothing to offer.

But about an hour and a half into the morning, something unexpected happens. I'm boxing up a dozen bagels for Tim Selleck, the town's barber, when the sheriff of Maple Ridge squeezes through the crowd. Along with three deputies. He pushes his way past the line, straight to the counter where I stand behind the register.

"Tess Cassidy?"

"Yes?" I say. I instantly break into a cold sweat.

"Your restaurant is operating in violation of the Maple Ridge city health code. Please shut down your equipment immediately and take a seat in the kitchen when you are finished. Wait for us."

I swallow hard. "Hunter," I call out. He's in the back, helping Jason load a new batch of dough into the extruder machine. He comes around the corner, and a deadly expression appears on his face.

"What the hell is this?"

"Sir, are you Mr. Thorne?"

"You're goddamn right."

"Your store is illegally serving food products. Shut down the equipment immediately and wait with Ms. Cassidy in the kitchen while we clear out the patrons from the dining area."

Hunter points a spatula at the sheriff's chest, like a gun. "Fuck you. We're not in violation of anything."

"Mayor's orders, sir."

"Fuck right off with that. The mayor is a corrupt piece of—"

Two of the deputies jump over the counter and grab Hunter, forcing his arms behind his back. I scream, and so do several ladies at the front of the line. There must be 30 or 40 people crammed into the line right now, and a commotion breaks out, verging on a riot. I step back from the brawling deputies, and barely dodge a swinging arm. Hunter breaks free of the deputies and puts one in a headlock, taking him to the ground.

"Don't touch me, motherfucker," growls Hunter. The other deputy grabs at his head, but Hunter shrugs him off, then moves to sit on top of the head-locked deputy, preventing him from moving.

The sheriff himself leaps over the counter, and I stand back in horror as he and the second deputy wrestle Hunter off the first man, then pin him down to the ground belly-first.

They slap handcuffs on Hunter and haul him to his feet. Before I can get a word in edgewise, they flip up the segmented counter and shove him past the crowd, out the front door.

The crowd is in a full uproar now, shouting and yelling and surging out of the door to where the sheriff's cruisers sit parked outside. I follow them out into the warm, humid morning after telling Jason to power off all the equipment and comply with the sheriff's orders.

I willingly surrender myself to a deputy standing outside, and he clicks the handcuffs tight behind my back.

My heart pounds, but I knew this was a possibility. The likely outcome, even. Now it'll be up to the justice system to decide what happens to us, the shop, and the mayor.

The deputy escorts me to his car and buckles me into the backseat. I crane my neck, and I see Hunter through the tinted windows, sitting in the backseat of another cop car. I spy Jason at the front door of the café, shooing out the last of the customers and locking the door tight.

Soon, the deputies return to their cars and we start driving slowly down Main Street toward the police station. Crowds of people march on either side of us and in front of us, and it probably takes half an hour just to get a half mile down the street. When we arrive at the station, they take us in for processing.

* * *

I pace around the cell. Hunter sits on the single cot, arms crossed on his knees. I have to pee, but the cell toilet is in plain view of everything, and I'm not about to drop my pants and pee in front of the cops. Or in front of Hunter, for that matter. I knew this could happen, but I'm getting more and more anxious as reality sets in.

"We're going to lose the shop for sure now," I say. I grip the cell bars with both hands, and I feel like a caged animal.

"Play it cool," says Hunter, "I've been in worse jams. Many times."

I whirl around. "Oh, so now you're Mr. Cool. You'll be lucky if they don't charge you with assaulting a police officer."

Hunter turns red. "Just wait for the media. They'll be coming."

Sure enough, within the hour, we spot media vans outside, through the tiny, thick jail cell window. I finally manage to calm down, and I sit on the cot next to Hunter. I move in close to him, and put my hand on his knee. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it.

Around the corner in the main part of the police station, a loud argument breaks out. It sounds like the media is trying to get access to us.

"Thanks for being with me," I say. "I would have given up without you."

"Don't thank me yet," says Hunter.

A guy in a suit with slicked-back black hair comes around the corner. I stand up from the cot. He quickly extends a hand between the steel bars and I shake it.

"I'm Joe Rose," he says. "I'm an attorney with Rose & Rose and I'd like to provide my services to you pro-bono. I heard what happened."

"Thank you," I say.

"This isn't the first time the mayor's done this, you know. He loves throwing his weight around to intimidate people. He's in dereliction of his duty to the people. And he's committing crimes by doing this."

"I couldn't agree more," I reply. I'm thrilled to hear the phrase "he's committing crimes." Maybe this is all going to be okay after all.

"I just hate that he's hassling a married couple that went into business together."

I look over my shoulder at Hunter and he smirks.

"Just hang tight, guys. I'm submitting a petition for your release and a stay on the shutdown order. We'll sort this out."