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“Barrett!” she called.

He stood. “Hey, Molly.”

She marched directly to him and thrust the bag upward. “For you.”

Barrett stared at it. “What is it?”

Molly rolled her eyes with the weary patience of a child beyond her years. “Food. Dad made sandwiches. I made the pie.”

Her father set the crate on my workbench. “And these are from us.”

Inside were dozens of jars, clean, sterilized, and sorted by size.

I stared. “Where did you get all these?”

“My sister used to preserve everything that didn’t outrun her. They’ve been sitting in boxes for years.” He glanced at Barrett. “Figured you two could use them.”

Barrett was still holding the paper bag, and his expression was oddly blank.

Molly tugged on the hem of his shirt. “Eat the sandwiches. Mom said you forget.”

I looked away quickly, suddenly extremely interested in the jars.

Barrett looked at me. “You tell people things.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Molly frowned. “Everyone knows you forget.”

Barrett’s ears shifted back.

Molly’s father laughed. “You’ve been feeding half this town for years, Barrett. We can manage a few sandwiches and a pie.”

Barrett looked down at the bag again. “Thanks,” he said roughly.

Molly seemed satisfied. She hugged him around the waist, announced they were going to check Agnes—the tree that was apparently improving by the day—and disappeared with her father almost as quickly as they’d arrived.

Barrett continued standing in the middle of my laboratory, holding his lunch.

I walked over and slipped my hand into his. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You look confused.”

“Am.”

I squeezed his fingers.

This was happening more and more often. The first time was three weeks ago, when someone left a casserole on our porch with a note saying Barrett had spent enough years feeding everybody else.

Then came a basket from Conjure and Crumb containing six cinnamon rolls and a Doom Donut with FOR BARRETT written across the top.

Barrett went through work gloves faster than anyone, so the hardware store owner kept his favorite pair behind the counter. Gregor the ogre had arrived one afternoon with a load of reclaimed cedar because he’d heard we were building benches for the lab. Doris had organized a rotating supply of baked goods while denying any knowledge of such an arrangement.

Nobody made a fuss—they simply started noticing.

Barrett still didn’t know what to do with that.