Most of my days begin as a near-clone of the day before. But there’s not a single resident in this little town who doesn’t know that’s all about to change.

Until that big day happens, I head into work, knowing the instant I pull open the door to the police station, Rusty’s going to start in about Old Man Jenkins again. He’ll tell me all about the old man’s latest “find.” How every time Old Man Jenkins calls the emergency line, he insists the deputy on duty doesn’t have the skills needed to handle the situation, and it’d be in everyone’s best interest to leave things be, at least until Addison arrives, which is always by 6:59 in the morning.

I suppose Mr. Jenkins thinks since he voted me into the seat of Town Clerk, I should be doing something other than sitting behind a desk—doing accounting, issuing licenses and permits, maintaining all the town documents and records, keeping vital statistics, and everything else I do that keeps this town functioning—to earn my wage. The problem is, Mr. Jenkins has a lot of issues. Some I can handle. Others I can’t.

His most recent round of complaints revolves around a town ordinance that might as well not even have the city seal of approval. It’s a rule that never gets enforced. Animals run around this town like they own all 2,162 of us. Mr. Jenkins thinks it should be the other way around. I know this because he tells me so at least once a day, the instant I show up to his front porch and take care of the newest disaster he claims has occurred.

For an almost ninety-year-old, Mr. Jenkins has kept his wits. But I think he’s forgotten one thing. Farmland is what keeps Willow Run alive and thriving, and because of that, I can confidently say there are more animals in these parts than there are humans.

What’s more of a problem around here is the stench from all of Stanford’s pigs and the commercial cow farm that sits within sight of the school grounds. Between the two farms, there’s enough poo power produced to regularly fill the electrical holding tank of a large metropolitan power plant to capacity, and then some. We call it the smell of money.

Since I’ve lived here most of my life, the odor of manure doesn’t roll my stomach like it does those passing through. That’s a good thing. If the smell were truly unbearable, my days would most likely start off somewhere near a toilet, especially since they begin with a 1.4-mile walk from my apartment on the south edge of town, and then end with the reverse trip back home at the end of my workday.

Tucking back a lock of hair behind my ear, I stride in a steady pace past Hank’s Gas Station, knowing any minute now, Mrs. Tinley’s gonna shout, “Good morning, Addison.” And she does, her tone just loud enough to dampen the knocking sounds of the diesel engine in the John Deere Gator she’s driving. Her small all-terrain utility vehicle, which is similar in nature to a miniature off-road pickup truck, rolls up beside me.

I let my gaze roam along her green machine. She loves this vehicle. Drives it all over town. Has it upgraded with both air conditioning for the muggy days of summer and heat for the snowy days of winter.

“A lady in your condition ought not be out walkin’ the streets,” she adds, her expression stern. “You should be home in the kitchen fixin’ eggs and bacon for the mister.”

Her comments used to rankle my feathers, but not anymore. I’ve had time to adjust to being the talk of the town.

Turning to her, I squint and lift a hand in a gesture of hello, subsequently using my palm to shield my eyes against the glare of the morning sun. “Good morning, Mrs. Tinley. Got your homemade noodles bagged up and ready for Heritage Days?”

Ignoring her comments is second nature now. She’s been hitting me with some sort of a snide comment every morning for a couple of months. And life’s just easier when I overlook the more hurtful words that get voiced.

Gossip filters though the mill here quicker than trees turn to lumber. And just like the gossip never stops, the sawdust from the lumber clings to you, getting in your hair and your clothes. You either learn to shake it off or you’ll be eating sawdust all your life. That’s just how it is here in Willow Run. And Mrs. Tinley, with her long silver hair twisted into a tight knot at the top of her head, will be the first to tell you so.

“Ninety-four dozen eggs worth of thin and regular noodles,” she says, leaning over, her arms crossed over the steering wheel, perfectly placed for use as a pillow for her chest. “Today’s batch dried overnight. Gotta bag ’em up. Then they’ll be set and ready to sell in the mornin’.”

“You know I’ll be first in line to buy some.”

And I will. Word’s out. Mrs. Tinley’s noodles go faster than a free meal at the Pancake House after an extra-long hour of church on Sunday morning.

Despite the fact she’s the nosiest resident in all of Willow Run, she’s also responsible for raising the majority of funds that help maintain quite a large college scholarship fund. That means a lot for our community. Without Mrs. Tinley’s noodle money, kids here might not otherwise be able to reach their dreams.

I’d know. I was once a two-year recipient of the Evalese Tinley Scholarship for Women. Without Mrs. Tinley, I’d not have the accounting and business degrees needed to keep this town organized and functioning.

“You better buy some,” she says and lifts her chin in the way I’ve come to learn is her signal she’s about to be off and running.

When I say “off and running,” I mean it in relative terms to how Mrs. Tinley drives. She has only one speed. And it’s set at exactly five miles per hour. At that rate, it takes what she calls a peaceful thirty minutes to mosey up to the town square from her house out at the lake. She’s never in any bit of a hurry.

And even though she knows where I’m going, like everyone else in this town, an offer for me to go along for the ride has never once exited her lips. That surprises me considering she continues to tell me on a regular basis a lady in my “condition” ought not to be doing whatever she finds me doing.

I’m not sure why she’s not offered me a ride other than she doesn’t want to be seen toting Addison Hunt around town.

Refusing to give it another thought, I make my way up to the heart of Main Street, cut across the town square, and pause for a moment to give a crying toddler a push on a swing. “There you go, little man.”

The curly blond-headed beast of a toddler squeals in delight as I give him another push.

“Thank you, Addison,” his momma says without looking up.

She’s busy, her body bent over, her hands wrestling with the pudgy arms and legs that are flopping about inside the stroller during a diaper change. “I don’t know what we’d do without you around here.”

“No problem. Not hard to see you’ve got your hands full.”

“Don’t think I won’t return the favor,” she says, lifting the precious bundle dressed in pale pink out of the stroller before latching the baby onto the side of her hip.

“Don’t think I won’t take you up on it,” I call to her, dragging a finger along the railing of the bandstand stairs, the fantasy location of most of my childhood dreams.

So much for my fairy-tale wedding.

“Beautiful day, Addison,” shouts Owen Mills, one of the local vendors who’s set up a tent at Heritage Days for as long as I can remember, as he pulls at the leg of a long table, then sets it up, adjusting the placement until it’s where he wants it.

“That it is, Mr. Mills.” I nod and smile. “Enjoy your weekend.”

He waves, and his early morning hustle with setting up his booth reminds me I’ve got the excitement of the long weekend to look forward to. With Heritage Days kicking off in a matter of hours, vendors are already claiming their spots and setting up on three sides of the square. Except for the participants that run along the west side of the square on Saturday morning during the 10K Willow Run, and the parade route that signals the end of the long weekend on Sunday afternoon, Main Street is pretty much shut down for three days. It works best this way, especially when droves of people descend from all over just to partake of a modern-day yard sale that showcases a mixture of trinkets and homemade goods while locals walk around in costume, retelling the town’s history from back in the 1800s.

“Yay for the weekend,” I say, the door to the station creaking as I pull it open.

Rusty Phillips twists in his spot behind the counter to meet my gaze, the carcass of a black and white feline clutched within his grip. As if he thinks I need a better view, he straightens his arms with a jolt.

“Thank God you’re here, Addison. Old Man Jenkins is at it again. I talked him into letting me take care of this one since you can’t touch cats. But you should probably go and have a chat with him. When I got to his house, he was going on about how he should have just tossed the poor thing onto the church lot where he found it. He’s crazy, Addison. The old fart mentioned, with warning signs flashing in his bushy brows, how the whole town needs prayers. Then he said something about the creatures of the night. Do you know what crap he’s talking about?”

I know Jonathan Jenkins well enough to know he’s harmless—and old, the last of his farming family to use old-fashioned techniques to eke out crops during the worst droughts. Like most things in life, he just needs a little sunlight, some liquid in the form of a good ole cup of black coffee, and a dose of friendly chitchat to settle his lonely soul. Somehow, knowing all that makes me the likely candidate to check in on him each day. Of course, he made that happen with his latest disaster. Poor kitty.

“I’m pretty sure it’s the kitty litter, not the cat, that I’m supposed to be careful with, but thanks for taking care of it for me,” I say as Rusty lowers his arms, slow to realize he can now remove the limp carcass from my sight. “You’ll score points with Jenkins if you take it over to God’s Acres and put it next to the old willow toward the back of the lot, down by the creek. The one over by the Hatfield statue. I’ll let Jenkins know you said a blessing over it. He’ll be feeling better by the time you’re back and washing your hands.”

“Why the willow?”

I lean against the door, certain this is as good a time as any to go and check in on Mr. Jenkins. “Don’t ask. Oh, and don’t forget to get some of Mrs. Tinley’s noodles first thing tomorrow morning. I’m not sharing mine with you. You can get your own this year.”

“You used to be so sweet,” Rusty teases. “No wonder you’re the talk of the town.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s not like I don’t know what everyone says.”

“Sorry I brought it up. You know I don’t judge you, Addison.”

“I know.” But it hurts just the same.

Even so, I can’t let their words affect me. I’m a strong woman. I can raise a baby. And do it alone.