“Sit down, sit down!” said Brett, pulling out a chair. “Tiffany, look who it is!”

Tiffany was Brett's wife. She'd been head cheerleader. She looked at my work boots and my old flannel shirt and smiled a little too sweetly.

“Wyatt! Wow. You look… the same.”

There were four others at the table. Dale Kramer, who'd been on the football team. Two guys I half remembered. And Dale's girlfriend, who was filming everything on her phone for some reason.

“So what happened, man?” said Brett. “Last I heard, you were in North Carolina. Making birdhouses or something.”

Everybody laughed.

“Tables, mostly,” I said.

“Tables!” Brett grinned. “And now you're back. Living with your folks?”

“I'm staying with Mom and Dad for a while, yeah.”

More laughter.

“Hey, no shame, bro,” said Dale. “Happens to the best of us.”

Brett leaned back in his chair.

“I'll be honest with you, Wyatt,” he said. “You picked the wrong town to come home to. There's nothing here. No jobs. The Works is dead. Half of Main Street's boarded up.”

He took a long drink.

“But hey,” he said. “At least you've still got your daddy's truck.”