Ezra
"Later," I say aloud, mostly to myself.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing," I say, which is exactly the problem. We clean the table, rinse the mugs, and wipe the counter. I pack the kit, leave two spare strips on the table in case she needs them, and take the pouch back. At the door, I turn.
"I'll be behind the second row," I say. "If you need out, catch my eye."
"I know," she says. "Thank you."
I head for the lawn.
The after-ceremony circle is already forming when I step into the lights. Mother smiles and doesn't ask where I've been. She relays a list of who needs hellos and who needs watching with the precision of someone who has carried three sons and a whole pack through too many nights like this. Ethan stands to her left, posture precise, face calm. Father holds t
