Location: Fairgrounds
Interactions: Callie Shaw
Mentions: Gideon Mercer and Callie Shaw

Jenkins had spent the first hour doing what Robert Jenkins did best, working the crowd. He had a knack for remembering names, shaking hands, and making people feel important. This was his time, his place, his crowd.

One hand wrapped around a plastic cup of lemonade, the other shaking hands and clapping shoulders. Jenkins moved through the fairgrounds like he owned the place. Parents stopped him to talk football. School board members thanked him for another successful year. Former players greeted him with big smiles and stories they’d talked about a hundred times before. With the only high school in town, even Town Council checked in on the principal.

Fourth of July was his kind of holiday. The fair, the fireworks, families together. Pines Holler at its best. And more importantly, people seeing him. Someone had once called him a “celebrity in his own mind” but Jenkins only laughed. He was the principal. The coach. The man who got things done. They didn’t need a superintendent, they had Jenkins.

He had already talked to the coaches, spoken to the teachers. Even though summer holidays had arrived, he had told his staff, “off the record”, they should be at the July 4th celebrations. The teachers knew the kids. If there was a problem, they should be there to help. Just their presence could be a deterrent, he said, prevented students from doing something stupid. Just one more thing to make sure the school had a part in the community.

By the time he had found himself near the centre of the fair and the spread of picnic tables, he overheard the conversation. Two older men sitting near the edge, sipping Dr. Pepper and chewing on their cigarettes.

"The generators?"

"Yep. Heard it from the Mayor herself. Bought 'em and had 'em delivered before he skipped town."

"Well I'll be damned."

"Doesn’t make any sense though. Why did Mercer buy all these generators and then pack up shop?"

Jenkins froze for a second and his smile disappeared. He stood there for a moment and chewed his lip. Mercer was gone. For weeks he'd been trying to reach that bastard. He’d gone through every avenue. Emails to his office. Calls to his secretary. Through a cousin of a cousin, he had reached out and finally scheduled an appointment and now all that work was dead. Weeks of phone calls, favors, and promises wasted.

Mercer had money. He had connections. He had the kind of influence that could've turned Jenkins' dreams into reality. A new football stadium. Expanded athletic facilities. A renovated school. Mercer had promised development and Jenkins saw opportunity. And yes, maybe a few opportunities for himself along the way. That was how things worked.

Now apparently Mercer had handed out generators like some kind of local hero and disappeared.

"Son of a bitch." Jenkins muttered under his breath.

For the first time all evening, Robert Jenkins wasn't interested in shaking another hand. He cut through the crowd with purpose. Past the food vendors. Past the Ferris wheel. Past a group of Pine Holler students who immediately stepped out of his path and shut down their conversation.

If Mercer was truly gone, then somebody needed to explain what the hell the town's leadership intended to do next. Because development wasn't going to stop, it couldn’t stop. This little town was drying up faster than cow pies on a summer day and funnel cakes and fairs wouldn’t be enough to save this place.

He finally spotted Callie Shaw near one of the vendor rows. Mayor Natalie Shaw's daughter. Town lawyer. Town activist. Town headache.

Jenkins adjusted his expression before approaching, trying to hide the exasperation that he felt growing in his chest. "Callie. Callie Shaw.”

His voice carried the same authority that had shut down classrooms and locker rooms for two decades. The same voice he had used when Callie was a junior in Pines Holler high.

"I need a word."

He stopped beside her, his eyes scanning the crowd before returning to hers. He looked at the young woman in front of him and assuming she had influenced her mother, continued,"I've been hearing some interesting things tonight."

He paused for a moment, then added, "About Mercer."

His jaw tightened and he growled,"Tell me your mother's around."

"I think the mayor and I need to have a conversation before this town makes another mistake it can't afford."

Entering the fairgrounds was bittersweet. It was the first year Valen had the holiday off, but the memories of this time last year still floated through his mind. Even in uniform, keeping the motley throng in check, he'd tracked Dallas's whereabouts. He had stayed in her perimeter, using every spare moment to tug her lithe form into the shadows to sneak an impromptu kiss, or else allowed his callused hand to ghost over her waist as he breezed by on patrol.

It wouldn't be anything like that this year.

He hoped to God he didn’t have the misfortune of running into Evermore—or worse, the two of them together. He hadn't spotted either one, but he’d only just cleared the crowded entrance. Instead, he was thrown off guard by the sight of Mollie; after everything she'd been saying, he wanted to see her about as much as the convict. Grimacing, he hunched his shoulders to duck past her place in line for a funnel cake, absently walking until a scent—sweet and bold—had him staggering to a halt. His slightly bleary eyes struggled to read the sign over the stall, but it was undeniably Mexican food.

He came up to the stand just as a young woman was leaving, leaning his arms heavily on the surface as he inhaled the air surrounding the grill. A vague amusement surfaced as the older man behind the counter grumbled a response after the retreating girl. “Ever consider a desk job?” Valen asked passively. His hazy brain observed the familiar profile of the man, now certain he was the owner of the local antique store. As he waited, he wracked his memory trying to recall the man's name—remembering him as one of the few men in town he'd yet to pick up a bad vibe from.

The benefit of being one of the only non-American food vendors meant quite a fair number of people walked up to Silvester’s stall. A fair few he recognized, like the man staring at him now He’d recognized the officer as a new edition to Pines. Well, not new per se, since four years wasn’t that short of a time, but for a lot of locals he’d probably stay new until he died here. ”I’d say my job is a desk job,” Silvester replied with a grin as he set a tortilla on the hot plate and flipped over some corn on the grill, ”Don’t have a lot of folks wandering in to do anything but sit at a desk, officer.”

He paused for a moment, then turned to look at him full as he closed the grill lid. ”Why do you ask? Planning on offering me something at the precinct? I’m not near pretty enough to be a secretary I don’t think.”

Valen felt his mouth twist at the unusually playful response from the older man, making a passive hum in acknowledgement. The alcohol was causing his responses to lag, but he hoped it wouldn't be apparent to anyone else. “Lifting furniture and heavy antiques doesn't really fall under the jurisdiction of a desk job. It's… Silvester, right?” he asked, once he had settled on one of the names rattling around in his head that seemed the most likely match.

He watched the grill for a bit, distracted by a sudden hunger pang as it sizzled, before lifting his eyebrows as the rest of the conversation caught up with him. He squinted at the man's face—which, as far as men were concerned, he was sure many women would find attractive. He lifted his shoulder as he replied, “You haven't seen our secretary, then.” He paused to lift his chin towards the food at Silvester's back. "That the… ee-loht?" he asked, his butchered pronunciation awkward on his tongue. "Ee-low-tee...?”

Silvester turned, toward the grill, opening it to let the smoke billow out like the chuckle from his lips. Wonky Spanish pronunciation occurred much more often around this time of year, seeing as how he had a menu of a wide number of Spanish words for the locals to stumble over. It didn’t bother him. Often times it gave Silvester a small laugh, but mostly he ignored it. Hearing it from Officer Lockwood, though, he could only really describe the feeling as endeared.

”Eh-loh-teh,” he said, slow and deliberate as his tongs plucked one of the corn from the grill. He looked over at Valen, a softness to his smile, while he coated the corn with crema and mayo and sprinkled it with a heavy dose of Tajin. ”On the house,” he offered.

”And, yes, it’s Silvester. Some folks like to call me Sal because my name is a mouthful,” Silvester said as he leaned against the side of his stall counter. It was nice to have a slow moment to just chat with someone familiar, ”Officer Lockwood, yes? I’d joke about having muscle to help me move that heavy furniture around, but I’ve made do with my own for years now. Keeps an old man in shape.”

“Eh-loh-teh,” Valen repeated, the word still coming out flat compared to how Silvester had said it. He shrugged, offering a faint smile that faltered under the other man's unexpected gesture of kindness. “You must be out of the gossip ring," he said after a beat, withdrawing his wallet to slide more bills across the counter than was necessary. Drunk or not, the overpayment was intentional.

After shoving the leather fold into his back pocket, he tugged the plate closer—noting there was no way he'd be eating the thing without making a mess. Considering it was a damn holiday, however, sticky finger foods were an anticipated highlight of the day. He lifted the loaded cob and took a massive bite, letting out a subtle, pleased grunt as the rich flavors spilled over his tongue. He gave a short, wordless nod while he chewed to convey his kudos, speaking only after he'd swallowed a second mouthful.

“Sal. I should be able to remember that," he replied, failing to keep his alcohol-thinned focus from drifting right back to Dal at the similarity. It was a fleeting thought before his mind turned over to his own unwanted nickname—not that ‘Val’ was one he ever willingly promoted.

He let out another gruff laugh, shaking his head once before opting for another bite. "Officer Lockwood is off duty. I'm saddled with a mouthful of a name too, but Valen is just fine,” he answered, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth to attempt some form of manners.

“Well, seems to me your creaky knees are in disagreement. I drive by often enough if you actually need some help lifting. My joints are still in top form," he joked, polishing off the street fare with more enthusiasm than he would have clocked when he first approached. “That was great, by the way. You should consider adding a kitchen to your shop—I’d have a hard time choosing between that and a beer after work.”

To think someone would recommend he open a kitchen while not a bad idea, in fact it flattered Silvester to his core, it would only ever end up a pipe dream for him. ”Valen,” Silvester nodded, pouring one of the agua frescas, raspberry flavored, into a solo cup and sliding it toward Valen, ”If I could indulge in every dream I’ve ever had, I wouldn’t need to be a rich man.”

For a moment, Silvester considered not taking the money offered, but a kindness offered and returned shouldn’t ever be spurned. His mother told him that and he told Anya that in kind. It helped that it rhymed—made it stick easier in the mind. ”Plus, if I’m to put a kind young officer like you to work, I might as well feed him,” Silvester turned back to tend to the food before it burned as a few more visitors he’d not been familiar with came up with an order of their own. He accepted their money, gave them their food, and turned back to Valen, ”I know we just formally met, but if you do intend on using your fresh joints to help me out, it’d be unkind of me not to offer you a meal. No need for a kitchen extension, after all.”

Silvester offers a small mutter to himself, ”I know it’d get my daughter to stop complaining about too many leftovers.”

“Thanks,” Valen murmured as the crimson drink was pushed towards him, accepting the cup gratefully. He took a small sip to sample it. It was damn good—which he was beginning to realize shouldn’t surprise him after the elote—and tilted it back to take several deep gulps.

He leaned more firmly against the stand, letting the comfortable silence stretch between them as Sal paused their talk to help some other customers. He was absently staring into his mostly depleted cup when Sal’s voice started up again. He turned his gaze back to the older man, mindlessly swirling the last of the liquid out of habit. “I’d be hard pressed to turn that down. I’ve never been much of a cook, but I do make a hell of a sandwich.”

He observed Sal as he mumbled a comment, belatedly guessing the one who had yelled across the fairgrounds earlier must have been Sal’s daughter. Valen inclined his head, keeping a relatively straight face. “It's no problem at all. Or if it is… guess you have plenty of Bengay to go around.” Raising an eyebrow as he finished the drink, he crunched the plastic between his fingers before tossing it in the trash nearby.

Of course Valen heard that exchange, which probably confirmed a few more locals milling about probably heard it too. For some reason, it prickled at the back of Silvester’s neck like someone just caught him doing something out of the ordinary in high school. At the very least, Silvester didn’t blush outside of what his ex-wife used to call a wine flush whenever he’d get even a little bit tipsy. ”Well, since I’m the only one who uses it,” Silvester grinned it off, throwing another cob of corn on the grill, ”we don’t run out often. Maybe if I did more stretches before lifting anything I’d not have as many issues. But we aren’t anything without our habits, good or bad, hm?”

With that, Silvester offered a genuine smile and lifted his tong, ”I’ll take you up on that sandwich, though. Nice to have someone else cook for you, for a change. Do you want another, by the way?” Then he pointed toward the big jug of agua fresca, ”Or another of that? The trick to a good agua fresca, by the way, is to beg your mother to make a big batch for you.” He wiggled his eyebrows at that, giving a toothy grin before it broke apart into a warm, chesty laugh like he’d just make a joke that would have his daughter rolling her eyes.

Valen let an easy smile return to his face, finding Sal's friendliness oddly contagious. It was disarming to relax after being on edge all morning about whether to even show up. He didn't respond to the comment about habits—though the words lingered in his mind. He wasn't too sure Sal would be so casual about the topic if he knew the extent of Valen's own, but he was content to let the conversation glide past it without weighing in.

At the offer of more food or drink, he let out a low, breathy laugh before giving his head a firm shake. “I shouldn't if I want to hold my buzz," he admitted, his eyes automatically scanning the surrounding crowd out of routine. “Pass on my compliments to your mother, and thanks for the—” He vaguely waved a hand at the stand in general, appreciative of the company just as much as the food.

Alcohol and fairgoers went hand in hand, Silvester knew that much, so the second Valen mentioned his buzz, he dipped down beneath one of the set up tables and pulled out a bottle of water. ”I say the same to my daughter and I’ll say the same to you, law enforcement or not,” Silvester said, not looking serious so much as sincere as reached out to grab Valen’s waving hand to push the water bottle into it, ”You stay as hydrated as you can, then thank me later. I’d offer you Tylenol for your morning after but I’ll probably be dealing with my own.”

Before Valen could go, however, Silvester grabbed a cup to pour fruit and chamoy into and slid it across to Valen. ”Just in case you or someone you know gets hungry,” he said, stabbing a fork into the cup to end any arguments, ”A gift for the pleasant conversation and a promise for more, hm?”

As the water bottle was thrust into his grip, Valen looked down at it, perplexed—completely floored by the notion that anyone thought he needed hydration to function. He probably did, truth be told, but the staggered explanation about water ruining his alcohol high died on his tongue as another parting gift slid across the counter. He stared at the cup, a deep crease forming between his brows.

“You… are something else,” he settled on, his voice dropping close to a mumble. It was a statement meant more for himself, unable to articulate how misplaced the older man’s thoughtfulness towards him was—particularly since he was actively filling the role as the town pariah. He didn’t decline either offering, however, lifting both of his laden hands awkwardly in a gesture of thanks. “I’m here alone, but I’ll make sure it doesn’t go to waste,” he said, taking a moment to gather his composure back from the overwhelming kindness.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you around, Sal. I don’t have a pen on me, but I’ll make sure to drop by sometime. The manual labor should do me good after all this,” he joked, peering down into the fruit cup while having absolutely no clue what the dark, reddish sauce over it actually was.

Regardless of town gossip, to which Silvester never found himself privy to, it never felt right to never give someone a chance. He knew the dangers of that, he felt like, growing up in this town with some of these people. So he simply waved off Valen’s thanks before his hand moved to pick up his tongs again. Silvester gave it a prompt wave as he called out, ”Don’t forget to let yourself have some fun, Valen!” Though he meant it more as a reminder to turn off the work brain, it would surely help as a general reminder, even to himself.

”And I’ll just call the non-emergency line if I need any help before I get your number,” Silvester ended with a joke, though he furrowed his brows as he looked down at his grill, mumbling some kind of self-deprecation in Spanish to himself while he scratched at his head.

Valen had already taken several steps away, but he still managed to raise his fruit cup overhead in a silent salute.

Interacting with: Lila Peterson
Mentions: Elias Peterson @Stryder BC

While most of Pines’ residents loved the fair, Delia couldn’t wait to get as far away from it as possible. Once the band had wrapped up, swapped pleasantries and congratulated themselves for how great they sounded, Delia dipped. She, for one, was not going to waste her night with overpriced food and rigged games. No, she was going to take advantage of the lack of authority presence literally anywhere else in town. And she wasn’t doing that alone.

By the time Delia was approaching the community centre, duffel bag stuffed full of cans clanging against each other, Lila was already leisurely waiting against one of the trees that surrounded the place. She had a book in her hand that Delia couldn't quite make out. ”You took your time,” Lila states simply, unmoving from her spot.

”And you missed the only good thing about that damn fair.” Delia shoots back, closing the gap and meeting Lila where she stood. Delia didn't notice the weight of disgruntlement she was holding until now that she was in the clear. She gave her friend a smile. ”Whacha readin’?”

Lila gave a half joking roll of the eyes. ”You would’ve rocked it whether or not I was there to see.” She lowers the book in her hand. ”Some self help book Joey's trying to get me on. Literally no different to all others. Get better sleep, set healthy boundaries, practice gratitude.”

Delia gave a snort, adjusting the position of the heavy duffel bag. ”Screw that. I say let out your emotions with spray paint and let your therapist be good ole liquor and THC.”

Lila gave a musical chuckle as she placed her book away. Lila had the most beautiful laugh, at least in Delia's opinion. ”Y'know what, Dee, you might be onto the best self help book yet. Save me a copy when you write it.”

Delia gives a chuckle as she turns to the desolate centre before them. It was as dead and washed out as the rest of the town. It’s white paint peeling- some parts exposing the plaster underneath. There was the occasional pathetic attempt of graffitied tags, some of which Delia knew she was guilty of. She would have done this place sooner if she hadn’t nearly been caught on multiple occasions. ”Yikes.”

”Good thing we’re here to fix it, hey?” Her friend’s statement prompted Delia’s trademark mischievous smile to spread across her face. The pair had this in the works for weeks. They knew what they were going to paint, the location- and the risks.

”Look at us doing some community service for once.” She pulls a white spray can out of her bag and throws it in the air. It spins a couple of times before she holds it out to the other young woman who grabs the can with glee.

---

Even though part of her expected it, Delia was impressed the authorities had stayed off their backs for the couple of hours they worked on their piece. The 2 young women stood back with paint covered hands in awe of the mural; a tree whose branches turned into bars of a cage that held two small yellow birds. Simplistic flying birds exited to the side, scribbled lines around the mural showcasing the feeling of being suffocated. Delia reckoned it was one of her best works.

She looked over at her friend who seemed memorised by the piece- as if she didn't have a hand in painting it. ”Race you to the roof!” Delia calls out before running at the wall.

The centre was only a single storey building. The roof had no spires, no view, nothing of interest but Delia always felt safer high up, as if her issues couldn't fly. She launches herself up toward a window, using the exterior sill to get her to the roof. Once she arrived she sat on the edge of the roof, legs dangling off the edge. Lila took markedly longer to join her and obviously didn't find the climb as effortless as Delia.

”You're gettin’ faster,” Delia compliments her friend, patting the ground- well roof- next to her. Lila acquiesced.

”Still, I don't think I'll ever come close to Pines’ own spidergirl,” Lila replies with a small smile. She pulls a blunt from her pocket and lights it up. After a first puff she holds it out to Delia who takes it gladly.

She gives a chuckle in response before taking a long inhale of the blunt. A silence fell between them for a moment as they just soaked in the night together. Delia passes the blunt back to her friend. ”So- your brother came up to me today.”

Lila gave a sigh, one that clearly said I did not bring enough weed for this yet she still passed it to Delia after taking a puff. ”Lemme guess, he asked you to drag me back home?”

”Not quite. But something like that. Says he misses you.” Delia takes another puff of the blunt and passes it back.

Lila scoffs. ”Didn’t miss me enough to come back in the years he was gone,” she gives a sigh, running a hand down her face. ”It takes me days to mentally prepare to spend an hour in that place, De. It's why Joey has me on all these stupid self help books. I just-”

Delia furrows her brow as the woman speaks, confused as to why she was speaking as if Delia was going to drag her home kicking and screaming. ”Lee- I ain't dragging you back home,” she reassures, placing a comforting arm around Lila's shoulder.

”I know. I'm just preaching to the choir. Sorry.” Lila gave a sigh a she looked out into the night with that she expression Delia knew was her waiting for the high to kick in

”Have you told him you applied for Spring intake?”

”No.” Lila shoots back before Delia could say anything else. Lila gives another sigh as she runs a hand her face. ”It's a bit hypocritical, I guess. I'm still mad at my brother yet I might be pulling the same stunt start of next year.”

”You're not leaving behind a scared pre-teen to fend for herself.” Delia responds, resting her head on Lila's shoulder. Lila's trademark scent of citrus and jasmine pleasantly danced in the air around her.

”Touché.” Lila tilted her head to rest on her friend for a moment before moving it back for another draw of the blunt. ”I'm not sure what I'm more scared of happening. Them trying to talk me out of it so I can still be here with free time to play caregiver or them acting like I'm “cleaning up my act”. I'm still me and this-” she vaguely gestures around her- ”-is still me. I can be this and have a degree.”

”Honestly, girl, do it the way you want. If you don't wanna say anything and just disappear I ain't gonna stop you. I'd do that myself.“ Delia watched her friend's muscles relax. She knew it was likely the weed hitting and not her words of encouragement reaching that deep. The pair say in contemplative silence for a while. Contemplation turned into relaxation as the effects of their self medication efforts kicked in.

Delia broke the silence. ”I want pancakes, let's get to the diner.” With that, the young women made their way back to the ground and celebrated the rest of the night relatively crime free.