I had spent more on a single fountain pen than the small wooden bench beside the front door, yet I stood outside that modest home unable to summon the courage to knock.

I finally raised my hand.

The man who answered had flour on his cheek and flour on one cuff of his navy sweater.

He took one look at me and knew.

“Gabriel Mercer,” he said.

“Lucas Bennett.”

He closed the door behind him, keeping the warmth and the children’s voices inside.

“Savannah has told me about you,” he said.