“Great truck,” Beau Arson said, his elbow hanging out the open window as they made their way down the winding road from Muscadine Farms. “My first truck was like this. Except mine was a ’62. One of the families I lived with when I was a teenager … the dad was a mechanic. He taught me how to fix it up. We put in a whole new engine, new tires, everything. That guy was my favorite of all of ‘em, of the ones that fostered me. We still keep in touch occasionally, cards every once in a while. I wished I could’ve stayed there at their house. But his wife had a baby about a year after that, and they couldn’t take the responsibility for another kid, so I went back into the system. But I’ll never forget that summer we fixed up that truck. Man oh man, how I wish I’d kept it all these years.”
“It was a similar situation with this truck and me,” Harley said, keeping her eyes focused on the road. “My grandfather bought it for me when I was only thirteen. Granddaddy said he thought it’d take us at least three years to refurbish it into anything drivable, and by that time I’d have my license. And he was right. It did take us about that much time. I think we finished it just a month shy of my sixteenth birthday, and I’ve had it ever since. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to retire it. I’ll just have to keep adding new engines.”
“You do that, Harley. Don’t ever let it go.”
They arrived in downtown Notchey Creek, where the morning crowds filled the sidewalks and streets with a sea of buzzing bodies. Harley stopped her truck in front of the sawhorses which had cordoned off the festival area from the remainder of downtown. Before she could put the truck into park, Alveda Hamilton was tapping on the driver’s side window.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.
“I just need to—”
“You just need to,” she said in a mimicking tone. “You just need to move this truck out of the festival grounds right now before you get a citation. You can’t park it here.”
Beau leaned across the seat where Alveda could see him. “Harley parks where she wants, or there won’t be any performance this afternoon.”
“Why, Mr. Arson! I had no idea it was you. What a pleasure. My apologies. I am so—”
“This truck still isn’t moving, lady.”
“Why, yes, of course.” She motioned to the festival workers. “Right this way.”
Two teenage boys, dressed in Pioneer Days sweatshirts, removed two sawhorses from the perimeter, opening a path wide enough for Harley’s truck. As they passed through, the two boys stared and pointed at Beau, who sat deliberately unaware in the passenger seat, his tattooed forearm still hanging out the window.
“That’s him,” one boy said to the other. “Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe that’s really him.”
“Dude,” the other boy said, “he’s even bigger in person.”
“You can just pull over there.” Beau ignored the boys as he pointed to the white gazebo in the middle of the town square.
When they arrived at the gazebo, Harley put the truck into park and turned to Beau. “Are you performing solo?”
“Nah, I’ve called in some reinforcements.” He popped open the passenger side door, and with his right hand gripping the truck’s roof, he hoisted his long body from the seat. He grabbed his guitar case from the truck bed, and after closing the door, he lowered his head inside the open window and looked at Harley. “You’re a good kid, you know that, Harley Henrickson?”
Then he disappeared from the open window and walked inside the VIP tent stationed alongside the festival stage.