Dylan stepped out from under the tree and scanned the crowd. He couldn't see any strangers, anyone behaving in a suspicious manner at all. He edged past the milling throngs of revelers, intent on the ice cream booth.
Screams of laughter drew his attention to the left, where a crew of partygoers flailed and tipped over, tripping over burlap potato sacks as they hopped toward a yellow ribbon, intent on the prize.
At the kissing booth, Ilse Jackson reigned supreme, subjecting her friends to pimply-faced lads while she looked on, untouched and smirking. He shook his head.
He continued moving forward until he reached a table set up under a makeshift awning of hastily-stitched fabric remnants stretched over some leftover lumber.
Kristina turned the crank on the churn that kept the mixture of
