Page 42 of Ransom

My chest is tight. I hate the changes I see every day. The town has been struggling for years, but it seems to be getting worse. "What are we going to do?" I ask, not really expecting an answer.

Angie's eyes light up. "I've been thinking about that," she says, leaning forward. "What if we formed a town committee? You know, of our generation. The young ones."

Tom snorts into his beer. "Hate to break it to you, Ang, but we're all pushing forty. Not sure anyone would call us young anymore."

"Yeah, when did that happen?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. I don't feel like I'm in my forties. I feel the same as I did twenty years ago.

Okay, that's a lie. My shoulder's funny, and my right knee has started making a little clicking noise when I go up the steps. Max thinks it's funny. I think it's fucked.

But other than the physical stuff, I still feel like a kid wishing Dad was around to make everything all better. Only there's no one left but me to make things right. No one left but me to take care of everything and everyone.

And some days, that's crushing.

Angie waves her hand dismissively. "That's exactly my point," she insists. "Look around. In this town, wearethe young ones. There aren't enough kids, enough families. We need to find a way to draw them back."

The table falls silent as we all consider her words. She's right, of course. The town is aging, and if we don't do something soon, it might not survive. I know I've been thinking it. Anyone who's been here more than twenty years is, too. It's like we're watching something die a slow, painful death.

But this isn't like Maggie. I can do something about this death. Or at least, I can try.

"How the fuck are we supposed to do that?" Tom asks, muscled shoulders bunching as he scrubs at his jaw. It's a good question. How the hell do we draw people to this town? Angie's last plan, or her ex-fiancé's plan, the mini-mansions, fell flat on its fucking face.

"What if we started a yearly festival?" Erin suggests, her eyes lighting up. "Or build something unique that could draw people from all over."

"Like what? The world's largest ball of twine?" Mike snorts.

"Actually, that's not a bad idea. People love weird stuff like that." I love weird stuff like that.

"Yes!" Erin says. "I drove to a library conference in Michigan last summer, and I stopped in a few small towns along the way. I like to visit other little libraries to see what they're doing. Some of them had little roadside tourist attractions that pulled people in."

"Okay, but let's think bigger," Angie says, tapping her fingers on the table. "What about a music festival? We've got that big field just outside town."

Tom shakes his head. "Where would we get the bands? And the equipment? That's a huge undertaking. And not cheap."

"Fair point," Angie concedes. "But we're onto something with events. What else could we do?"

"Ooh, I've got it!" Sarah chimes in from behind the bar. "Extreme knitting championships!"

The rest of the table bursts out laughing, but I don't see why. It's not a bad idea. Yarn folk are a little nuts, so I could see that drawing people in. "Yeah, that'll really bring in the crowds," I say.

"Hey, don't knock it," Sarah defends. "You'd be surprised how competitive knitters can get."

I want to explain to her that I wasn't knocking it, but the conversation's already moved on. I'll have to tell her later. This isn't the first time someone got the wrong idea, and I've learned it's easier to clarify myself later. It's a 'face and voice doesn't match words' thing. I'm better than I used to be; I've practiced, but once in a while, this still happens.

I don't let it bother me much anymore. And if it's really important, I'm not shy about correcting people right at the moment. And everyone at this table—people I've known foryears, and in some cases decades—have learned this about me, so I don't have to worry about offending or upsetting them.

It makes my life a fuck of a lot more comfortable.

As the night wears on, the ideas get wilder. Mike suggests a cheese-rolling competition down Main Street. Erin proposes a literary festival featuring only books about small towns. Tom, after a few more beers, even floats the idea of a nude calendar featuring the town's "finest specimens" to raise money.

"Alright, alright," Angie says, trying to rein us in. "Some of these are... interesting. But we need something practical."

I lean back in my chair, thinking. "What about focusing on what we already have? We have a lot of classic car enthusiasts in the area. I see some beauties come through the garage. Maybe we could expand on that?" Dad and I built a reputation for quality work, so it's not unusual for someone to drive an hour or two to have me take care of their precious babies. I like the work, and I like the people—most of them are happy to sit in a lawn chair in the garage and chat while we work.

Small talk annoys me, but I can talk about cars for hours.

"A classic car show?" Tom perks up. "That could work. We've got the space for it."

"And it would bring in people with money to spend," Angie adds, nodding very enthusiastically, her chin nearly tipping her glass over. How many beers has she had?

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