Ben pushed his glasses up his nose once more and gave one firm nod.

“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said since February,” he said.

On Friday evening, April fourteenth, the high school lot filled up early with diesel welding trucks, shined-up family sedans and two white stretch limousines rented from Mitchell.

The evening air carried the cold, wet smell of snowbanks melting along the gravel edges of the pavement.

Bright floodlights lit up the concrete steps leading to the main gym entrance.

At twenty past six, Darla pulled her dark gray sedan into a space near the tall flagpole.