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“That’s my uncle,” the kid chirped.
“You don’t say.”
The kid unbuckled his seat belt and leaned across the console. “He’s a lumberjack.”
I smiled. “Some of my best friends are lumberjacks. What’s your name?”
“Emmett.”
“Nice to meet you, Emmett. How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
He seemed a bit small for twelve, but I went along with it. “Cool. I have a daughter just about your age. You might be in the same class next month.”
“I don’t think so. I have to go home in two weeks.” Emmett sulked, and honestly, it was an Oscar-winning performance. He went from sunny to despairing and back to sunny in seconds, adding, “We’re getting ice cream to mizrate.”
Waylon cleared his throat. “I believe commiserate is the word you’re looking for.”
Emmett pumped his fist. “That’s it!”
“And this guy is seven, not twelve. No lying to police officers, Em.”
The kid’s eyes bugged out. “Will I go to jail?”
Waylon raised a brow, his gaze trained on me. “I doubt it. But I might be getting a ticket. Am I, Officer?”
The sarcasm was hard to miss. I suspected this was his way of expressing an opinion about being pulled over for a minor traffic violation. But I was feeling magnanimous and decided to let the snark slide.
I gave a curt nod instead. “That would be Chief, and no…just a friendly warning, Mr. Gibbons.”
“Chief?”
“Reg La Rue, Chief of Police.” I crossed my arms in a faux-relaxed pose. “I heard you’re new at the mill, and before you ask, this is a very small town. Word gets around.”
“Hm. Well, yeah. I oversee lumber distribution at Mill Depot. Been here two months now.”
“So you are a lumberjack.”
“I told you so,” Emmett piped in.
I chuckled lightly. “You did indeed. Welcome to Wood Hollow, and nice to meet you, Emmett.”
“Thanks!”
“Oh, and by the way…if you like chocolate ice cream, get the fudge swirl at Swensen’s. It’s amazing.”
Emmett hopped up like a demented kangaroo. “I love chocolate! I love all ice cream.”
“I’m with you, kid.” I tapped the truck’s roof and stepped aside. “Have a good day.”
“Wait! I have to ask the policeman something!”
The truck’s window slid up, down, halfway up, and down again. Waylon shot a chagrinned glance my way.
“What’s up, Emmett?”
“Do real football players live here?”
