Page 1

Chapter 1 — Carolina

The man ahead of me in the cider line has been flirting with the same woman for four minutes, and she's beating him at it.

She's past seventy, wearing a knitted pumpkin hat with a stem on top. Every time he leans down to say something charming, she tips her head back and says "Oh, hush" in a voice that means keep going.

He holds a crate of cider jugs against one hip the whole time like it weighs nothing. That's how I notice the shoulder.

He lifts with his right arm and lets the left trail behind with the elbow tucked in. When he finally swings the crate onto a folding table, the shoulder jumps toward his ear and drops again, quick. Like a man flinching from something he doesn't want to admit hurts.

I've been driving since morning and haven't thought about work once. I think about it now, in a tent that smells of cinnamon and scorched sugar and wet wool. A draft sneaks under the canvas to find the gap between my collar and hair.

Somewhere out on the green a speaker crackles through a pumpkin weigh-off, losing every fifth word. A fiddle is doing its best against a banjo that has other ideas.

He rolls the shoulder out and winces, barely. Then he turns around, finds me looking, and doesn't bother pretending he hasn't noticed.

"You've been staring at my arm for at least a minute," he says, walking toward me with his palms wiped on his jeans. He's tall enough that I have to tip my head back, which doesn't happen to me often. Dark hair that needs a cut, dark beard trimmed close, rust-colored flannel with the sleeves shoved to his elbows. Eyes blue enough that I look away on purpose and then look straight back. "I'd love to say I'm used to it, but I'm not, so I need to know if it's the arm or the cider."

"Your shoulder."

"My shoulder."

"The left one. You hike it about half an inch every time you put something down, and you tuck your elbow in like there's a sandwich under it."

The corner of his mouth lifts. His beard goes with it. "I just came for cider, ma'am."

"How long has it been doing that?"

"Long enough that I've stopped asking it questions. Why? Are you a doctor?"

"Physical therapist."

"Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've been trying not to look at you since you got in this line, and you looked first, with a diagnosis." He leans one hip against the table beside me, close enough that I catch cedar, cold air and something warmer under it. Coffee maybe, or just him. "Go on, then. Tell me what's wrong with me."

"I'd have to touch it."

"I'd hate to see you do your job badly."

I laugh, a loud, startled bark that turns two heads in the line.

I should say something sensible. What I say is "May I?" and he says "Please," quiet enough that the word seems to arrive in my hand.

I set two fingers on top of his shoulder through the flannel. The cloth is warm from the steam coming off the cider kettle. Under it the muscle is tight as a rope somebody tied a boat to. I press down at the point of the joint, slowly, and watch his face.

"Tell me when."

He doesn't say anything. I look up. He isn't watching my hand at all. He's watching me, and the look is steady and frankly interested enough that my fingers go still.

"You were supposed to tell me when," I say.

"I'm being brave about it."

"That isn't a clinical response."

"It's the one I've got." He tips his chin toward my hand. "There's a spot a little behind where you are. Feels like a walnut."