Country music seeps from the wall speakers, the volume turned way down, and without all the crowds laughing and sweating in here, the temperature’s dropping fast. It’s like that at night in the mountains—we go from a hot, sweaty day to a frosty night with barely any warning. My little artist has goosebumps forming on her arms, and as she sharpens her pencil she suppresses a shiver.
Floorboards rattle under my boots as I stride to Waverly’s stool from earlier in the corner. Her sweater is slung across the stool, both sleeves dangling toward the floor. It’s a soft wool knit, the color of morning mist, and it’s delicate in my hands.
I’m careful as I bring it back to the booth, cradling it like something precious.
“Here.” Waverly blushes pink when I offer it to her. “Don’t catch a chill.”
