The next day was surprisingly calm.

That did not mean it was actually quiet, because placing both the Jenkins and Briarwyn families inside the same fairground made true silence impossible. Still, compared to the chaos of the past several days, the morning felt almost peaceful.

No one fought over where they would sit in the cars. Milo did not appear with a mysterious stick. Dad and Kai disagreed about the fastest route, but they managed to keep the argument below shouting volume, which felt like real progress. Even Harper and Brooklyn made it through the drive without accusing each other of stealing a jacket, a charger, or an entire personality.

Maybe everyone was simply tired.

We had spent the past several days moving constantly, from the hiking trails to the orchard, from the doctor's office to caramel apples at the Briarwyn house, and then through an empty park while throwing wet leaves at one another. My nose still ached from my fall, Riley had only recently started therapy, and even the younger boys had begun yawning before dinner instead of using the furniture as climbing equipment.

Maybe everyone knew that the parents desperately wanted one day that did not end with mud, blood, or someone falling out of a car.

Then again, we were walking into an autumn fair.

There was only so much peace anyone could reasonably expect.

The fairgrounds looked even larger from the inside than they had through the car window the evening before. Rows of colorful booths stretched across the open field beneath strings of golden lights, even though the afternoon sun was still bright enough that they were not needed yet. The Ferris wheel turned slowly above the tents, its painted carriages rising against the pale November sky, while faster rides spun and tilted farther away, carrying shrieking passengers high above the crowd.

Music came from several directions at once. One ride played something loud and cheerful while a small stage near the food tents hosted a local band. Bells rang from carnival games, workers called out promises of easy prizes, and children shouted excitedly whenever someone won a stuffed animal large enough to require its own seat in the car.

The air smelled like cinnamon, popcorn, fried dough, caramel, and enough grease to make every responsible decision feel temporarily unimportant.

Despite the crowd, our families did not rush.

For once, we simply wandered.

Willow and Mom walked near the front with Milo and Hudson between them, while Dad and Kai followed several steps behind, sharing a bag of kettle corn that Dad insisted he had purchased for himself. Harper and Brooklyn stopped every few minutes to inspect jewelry, candles, or handmade decorations at the craft booths. Lydia claimed she did not care about any of it, although she spent almost ten minutes looking through a rack of knitted hats before pretending she had only stopped because everyone else was slow.

Riley stayed beside me.

He seemed calmer than I had expected.

The noise was still a lot, and I noticed his attention jumping whenever a ride released a sudden burst of music or someone screamed nearby. His shoulders tightened once when a large group passed too close around us, but he did not ask to leave. He only stepped slightly nearer to me until the crowd thinned again.

I tried not to turn every five seconds to check his face.

I failed.

"You can stop doing that," Riley said.

I looked at him innocently. "Doing what?"

"Watching me like I might suddenly explode."

"I am not watching you."

"You've looked at me at least eight times since we passed the entrance."

"You counted?"

"I needed something to do while you stared."

"I wasn't staring."

"You walked directly into Lydia."

"That was unrelated."

Lydia looked back from several feet ahead of us. "No, it wasn't. She was looking at you."

I pointed at her. "No one asked you."

"You walked into my shoulder."

"I apologized."

"You said, 'Move.'"

"That was my apology."

Riley's mouth twitched.

I looked away before he could see me smile. "I was only making sure you were okay."

"I know."

His answer was softer than the teasing deserved.

I glanced back at him.

He had his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, and the wind had pushed his hair across his forehead. He looked tired, but not trapped. Curious, maybe. His eyes kept moving over the fairgrounds, following the lights and rides and crowds as though he was trying to understand how everything fit together.

"You still okay?" I asked.

"That makes nine."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

I waited.

Riley sighed, but there was no real annoyance behind it. "I'm okay."

"You'll tell someone if you aren't?"

"Yes."

"You won't pretend because Milo wants to stay?"

"Yes."

"You know we can leave whenever—"

"Autumn."

I stopped.

"The escape plans," he reminded me.

"I only gave you one."

"You were building toward seventeen."

"I was being thoughtful."

"You were being anxious for me."

"That can also be thoughtful."

He gave me a look.

I raised both hands in surrender. "Fine. I'm done."

"Thank you."

"Unless you look overwhelmed."

"Autumn."

"I said I'm done."

He shook his head, but he was smiling.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow collection of small, ridiculous moments.

Milo made Riley keep his promise and ride the tiny train with him, which turned out to be a brightly painted row of miniature cars that moved around a looping track at approximately the speed of a determined turtle. Riley folded himself awkwardly into a seat far too small for him while Milo waved at us every time they passed.

Lydia took three videos.

Riley noticed on the fourth lap and covered his face.

"This is humiliating," he said when they finally climbed out.

"You promised," Milo reminded him.

"I didn't know what I was promising."

"That is still a promise."

Riley looked toward me for support.

I smiled sweetly. "You looked adorable."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, Romeo."

His eyes remained on mine for a second longer than they needed to before Milo grabbed his hand and dragged him toward a game involving plastic rings and rows of brightly colored bottles.

Riley lost twelve dollars trying to win him a stuffed frog.

Willow finally intervened. "You have been at this booth for fifteen minutes."

"I almost have it." Riley insisted.

"You have missed every bottle."

"The rings are defective."

The young man running the booth leaned against the counter. "They're not."

Riley pointed at him. "Biased testimony."

Milo nodded seriously. "They're cheating."

Willow folded her arms.

Riley looked down at the remaining rings. Then at her. "One more round?"

"No."

Milo sighed with the disappointment of someone whose childhood had been permanently ruined.

Kai eventually bought him a small stuffed frog from a nearby vendor for less than Riley had spent attempting to win one.

Riley stared at the frog. "That feels dishonest."

"It feels affordable," Kai replied.

Milo hugged it to his chest. "His name is Therapy."

Everyone went quiet.

Willow blinked. "Why?"

Milo shrugged. "Because Riley went to therapy."

Riley stared at him.

Then he started laughing.

The rest of us followed.

Even Willow laughed, although she covered her face first.

By the time we reached the quieter side of the fairgrounds, everyone had eaten something, argued about something, and spent money on something no one actually needed. Mom and Willow had purchased candles. Harper and Brooklyn each bought a necklace before discovering they had chosen almost identical ones. Dad carried an enormous bag of kettle corn that he still refused to admit belonged to the whole family. Hudson had won a plastic sword. Milo had somehow acquired a second stuffed animal despite Willow insisting he only had one.

The back section of the fair was devoted to community competitions and demonstrations. Long white tents sheltered tables covered with homemade pies, jars of preserves, knitted blankets, flower arrangements, carved pumpkins, and vegetables grown to such unnatural sizes that they looked capable of becoming aggressive.

Milo stopped in front of a pumpkin almost as tall as he was. He stared at it for several seconds. "That's fake."

"It's real," Hudson told him.

"No."

"Yes."

"Pumpkins don't get that big."

"That one did."

"Then it isn't a pumpkin."

Hudson crossed his arms. "What is it?"

Milo considered the enormous orange shape. "A monster."

Riley nodded thoughtfully. "Strong argument."

"It is not a strong argument," Lydia said.

"I found it convincing."

Milo smiled proudly.

We continued beneath the tents, stopping every few feet because someone wanted to inspect a pie or read the ribbon attached to a jar of jam. Dad became deeply offended when he discovered that someone had won first place for apple butter, even though he had never made apple butter in his life.

"I could do that," he said.

Mom looked at him. "You burned toast yesterday."

"That was unrelated."

"You put it in the toaster and walked away."

"I was distracted."

"By what?"

Dad thought about it. "The news."

"You were watching a video of a raccoon washing grapes."

"It was educational."

Riley laughed beside me.

I looked at him.

He caught me immediately. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring again."

"I'm allowed to look at you."

The words escaped before I had time to stop them.

Riley's eyebrows rose.

I looked away. "I meant because you were laughing."

"That explanation made it worse."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, Juliet."

My heart reacted the way it always did now, with one sudden, painful beat that felt too large for my chest. I pretended to be interested in a row of prize-winning onions.

Riley smiled to himself and kept walking.

We had almost reached the end of the competition area when Willow suddenly stopped.

Because she stopped, Kai walked directly into her.

Because Kai stopped, Dad nearly walked into him.

Hudson bumped into Dad, Milo bumped into Hudson, and Lydia stopped just in time to avoid joining the small human collision forming behind them.

"What happened?" Kai asked, rubbing his shoulder.

Willow did not answer. She was staring at a large wooden sign beside a white tent. Her entire face brightened. "Oh my God."

Everyone followed her gaze.

The sign had been decorated with painted leaves and little bundles of straw.

ANNUAL AUTUMN FAIR SCARECROW BUILDING COMPETITION

TEAMS OF TWO

REGISTRATION CLOSES AT 2:00 P.M.

COMPETITION BEGINS AT 3:00 P.M.

FIRST PLACE: TROPHY AND $50 CASH PRIZE

For several seconds, no one said anything.

Then Willow gasped. "This is new!"

I looked toward her. She was not merely smiling. She was beaming.

"Oh my God, we all have to sign up."

Kai looked at the sign again. "Do we?"

"Yes."

"That sounded less like an invitation."

"It wasn't one."

Dad stepped closer to read the rules posted beneath the main sign. "Teams of two."

The moment he said it, every person went silent.

I knew exactly what was coming.

Mom knew too.

"No."

No one had spoken yet.

Harper blinked innocently. "No what?"

"No arguing about partners."

"We weren't arguing."

"You were preparing."

"You don't know that."

"I gave birth to four of you. I know what preparation looks like."

Willow was already walking toward the registration table. "Winner gets a trophy and fifty dollars!"

"I want the money!" Hudson shouted.

"I want the trophy!" Milo yelled.

"I want both," Lydia announced.

"That isn't how teams work," Harper reminded her.

"I'll keep both."

"Your teammate might object."

"They'll recover."

Dad looked around at everyone. "We should make this fair."

Kai turned toward him. "Want to be partners?"

Dad answered immediately. "Yes."

Mom stared at them. "That was disturbingly fast."

"We understand one another," Dad said.

"You argued about a duck for half an hour yesterday." She reminded him.

"And we came through it stronger," Kai replied.

Dad nodded solemnly.

Harper reached for Brooklyn's arm. "You're with me."

Brooklyn looked down at Harper's hand. "Did you just claim me?"

"Yes."

"What if I don't want to be your partner?"

"You do."

"I genuinely don't."

"You're hurting my feelings."

"You'll recover."

Lydia scanned the group with the seriousness of someone choosing a teammate for a life-or-death mission. "I need someone competitive."

"I'm competitive," Hudson said.

Lydia looked at him. "You used one of your five photographs on a wet glove."

"That was an accident."

"You're already weakening my confidence."

That left Milo. His eyes moved immediately toward me. I saw the decision form on his face before he opened his mouth.

"Autumn!"

I took one step backward. "No."

His mouth fell open. "You didn't even hear my question!"

"I know where this is going."

"You're my partner."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"You win every snowman contest."

Riley turned toward me. "You do?"

I sighed. "Unfortunately."

Milo grabbed my hand with both of his. "That means we'll win!"

"Milo, scarecrows and snowmen are completely different."

"They're both people."

"They are absolutely not people."

"They have faces."

"So does the giant carrot near the entrance," Riley pointed out.

Milo looked triumphant. "Exactly."

I stared at Riley. "You are not helping."

"I thought the argument was strong."

"It is not."

Lydia appeared beside us. "Riley and Autumn are partners."

Both of us turned toward her.

Milo tightened his grip on my hand. "No."

"Yes," Lydia replied.

"No!"

"Yes."

"She's mine!"

"I am not an object," I reminded them.

No one listened.

"Riley and Autumn should be together," Harper said.

I looked toward her. "Why?"

She shrugged in a way that suggested the answer should have been obvious. "You know."

"No, I don't."

"You do."

"I genuinely do not."

Brooklyn joined our sister. "You two will work well together."

"Based on what?" I folded my arms.

"Fourteen years of evidence."

Riley lifted one finger. "I don't remember any of that evidence."

"Exactly," Lydia said.

He frowned. "How does that support your argument?"

"It doesn't."

"Then why did you say exactly?"

"I wanted to participate."

Milo pulled at my hand again. "I want Autumn because she always wins the snowman contest."

"Almost always," I corrected.

His eyes widened. "You lost?"

"Once."

"To who?"

I stared into the distance. "A twelve-year-old named Sophie who built a snow dragon."

Riley's eyebrows rose. "That sounds better than a snowman."

"It was technically against the rules."

"You sound bitter."

"I am bitter."

Milo looked even more determined. "She has trophies."

Riley looked at me. "You have snowman trophies?"

"Three."

"You have three trophies for building snowmen?"

"They are respectable competitions."

"They are frozen people."

"They are art."

"That sounded personal."

"It is."

Willow returned from the registration table holding several brightly colored stickers. "I signed everyone up."

The arguing stopped.

Mom blinked. "Already?"

"Yes."

"With partners?"

"Yes."

I immediately became suspicious. "Who am I with?"

Willow looked down at the list, even though I was certain she already knew. "Riley."

I stared at her. Riley stared at her.

Milo released a cry of complete betrayal. "No!"

Willow looked toward him. "You're with me."

"But I wanted Autumn!"

"I am offended." His mother placed one hand dramatically against her heart.

"You don't win snowman contests." Milo whined.

"I raised Riley. That should count for something."

Milo considered that. "Can you make a better snowman than Autumn?"

Willow looked toward me.

I smiled.

She sighed. "No."

"Then I don't want you."

Kai covered his mouth to hide a laugh.

Willow stared at her youngest son. "I carried you for nine months."

Milo shrugged. "Autumn has trophies."

Riley started laughing.

I pointed at him. "This is not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"You're only laughing because you got what you wanted."

The words left my mouth before I could think about them.

Riley stopped laughing.

My heart stopped with him.

His eyebrows lifted. "I got what I wanted?"

"That isn't what I meant."

"It sounded like what you meant."

"I meant you were assigned the strongest partner."

"So you."

"I have three trophies."

"You seem extremely proud of those trophies."

"I earned them."

Riley smiled.

Then I realized something else had changed.

He did not look uncomfortable.

He did not look trapped by the implication that he might have wanted to be paired with me. He only looked amused, standing there with his hands tucked into his coat pockets while he waited for me to explain myself into a deeper hole.

"You could sound slightly less upset about being my partner," he said.

"I'm not upset."

"You said it like you had been sentenced."

"I am defending myself against a five-year-old."

"I'm five!" Milo shouted.

"That is what I said."

"No, you said it mean."

"I said it accurately."

Willow attached his team sticker to the front of his coat. "You and I are going to build the best scarecrow."

Milo looked toward her. Then toward me. Then toward Riley.

His eyes narrowed. "Fine." He pointed at us. "But we are enemies."

Riley nodded seriously. "Understood."

"No talking."

"That seems difficult."

"No helping."

"We were not planning to."

"No stealing ideas."

Riley glanced at Willow. "What if your idea is really good?"

Milo hesitated. "Then you can look at it, but you cannot copy."

"Fair."

I shook my head. "You are negotiating with him."

"He has clear demands."

"He is five."

"Apparently that is when they are most dangerous."

Kai nodded. "I taught him that."

Willow looked toward her husband. "Of course you did."

Around us, the teams began settling naturally despite all the protesting. Dad and Kai immediately wandered toward the supply tent to inspect the materials they would be allowed to use. Mom and Willow began discussing whether creativity or construction mattered more, even though Willow was technically paired with Milo. Harper and Brooklyn argued about whether their scarecrow should be pretty or frightening. Lydia and Hudson had already decided they were going to build something "intimidating," which made me afraid to ask what they meant.

Riley stood beside me and read the competition rules. "Each team has forty-five minutes," he said.

"That is not enough time." I frowned.

"You have built snowmen faster."

"Snow is easier to shape than straw."

"I wouldn't know."

"You will soon understand."

"Do you have a plan?" He asked.

"Not yet."

"You are the champion."

"I need to see the supplies."

Riley glanced toward the white tent where bales of straw, wooden poles, old shirts, trousers, hats, ribbons, fabric scraps, buttons, string, paint, and boxes of decorations had been arranged across several long tables.

"You sound very serious." He pointed out.

"This is a competition." I said.

"For fifty dollars."

"And a trophy."

He looked at me. "The trophy matters more?"

"Obviously."

"Do you need a fourth snow-person trophy?"

"It is a scarecrow trophy."

"Important distinction."

"Very."

Riley smiled. Then his expression became more thoughtful as he looked toward the competition area. "Have we done this before?"

The question softened something inside me. "No."

He looked toward me. "Never?"

"Never."

His shoulders loosened slightly. "This is new too?"

"Completely new."

"No old stories?"

"No."

"No photographs of another scarecrow we built together?"

"No."

"No version of me who already knows whether I'm good at this?"

I shook my head. "Neither of us has any idea what we're doing."

The same quiet relief I had seen at the park appeared in his face.

He did not have to ask how he had behaved the last time because there had been no last time. There was no old Riley who had already built the better scarecrow, made the joke first, or stood beside me in this exact place. This moment had no history he could fail to remember.

It belonged to both of us equally.

Riley smiled. "Good."

The single word held more feeling than it should have.

Yesterday, he had told me he liked that I could not remember the leaf fight either. He had been happy because there was finally a memory neither of us had lived without the other. Now, for the second day in a row, we had found something new.

Something that did not belong to the boy in the journals. Something that was not a tradition everyone else had already repeated for years.

Something this Riley could enter without being compared to anyone.

"So, partner," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Partner?"

"That is what the registration form says."

"You sound far too pleased."

"I have a three-time snowman champion on my team."

"Exactly."

"You are going to carry us."

"I absolutely am."

"Good."

I stared at him. "What are you contributing?"

"Moral support."

"No."

"Encouragement."

"No."

"I can carry heavy things."

"Useful."

"I'm tall."

"Also useful."

"And I have apparently spent fourteen years learning how to annoy you."

"That contributes nothing."

"I disagree."

"Explain."

"You always work harder when you are angry."

I opened my mouth. Then closed it.

He smiled triumphantly.

I tried not to smile. I failed.

Riley noticed immediately. "There," he said.

"What?"

"I'm already contributing."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, Juliet."

Milo shouted from several feet away, loud enough for everyone beneath the tent to hear him. "STOP BEING FRIENDS WITH THE ENEMY!"

The entire family burst into laughter.

Riley looked toward him, then back at me. "Should we be worried?"

"Extremely."

"He is five."

"He holds grudges."

"For how long?"

"Once, I ate the last dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget, and he refused to speak to me for two days."

Riley nodded slowly. "We need a strategy."

"Finally, something useful."

He held out his hand.

I looked down at it. "What?"

"Partners."

My heart gave one quiet, painful beat.

The gesture was simple. Entirely harmless. Nothing more than the beginning of a silly competition at a town fair.

Still, I remembered the way his hands had once held mine through anxiety attacks. I remembered waking on his bedroom floor with his fingers still wrapped around mine. I remembered him reaching for me in the orchard, catching me when the world disappeared, and holding me until I opened my eyes again.

Now he was offering his hand because he wanted us to build something together.

I placed mine in his. "Partners."

Riley's fingers closed around mine, and his smile grew.

Around us, both families continued arguing over ideas, materials, prize money, and which team was destined to embarrass everyone else. Milo had begun planning our defeat. Dad and Kai were whispering beside a bale of straw as though they were discussing classified information. Lydia and Hudson were searching for objects that looked dangerous enough to become scarecrow accessories.

For once, none of that noise felt overwhelming.

I was not thinking about the Riley who had forgotten me. I was not searching his expression for familiar pieces of the boy I had known before the accident. I was not wondering what he would have said last year or whether the old Riley would have wanted to be my partner.

There was no last year for this.

There was only now.

A crowded autumn fair. A scarecrow competition. Forty-five minutes. One trophy. Fifty dollars.

And Riley standing beside me with his hand around mine, smiling because neither of us had ever done this before.