“The official mayor of Hell,” she says, like that is a normal sentence. “He belongs to nobody and everybody. Mostly he belongs to whoever has bacon.”
August lowers his fork. “He’s a mayor.”
“He is,” Sophie says. “A very corrupt one.”
Mayor McCoy gives one soft huff, like he objects to the accusation.
August leans closer to me. “Dogs bite.”
My arm goes around him before I think about it.
Sophie’s face softens, but she doesn’t make a big deal of it. “Some do. Mayor McCoy mostly begs, sheds, and attends community events he ain’t invited to.”
The dog sits down in the doorway, red bandana crooked, belly round enough to prove the bacon theory.
“He ain’t mean,” Derby says from the hall, coffee in one hand, his voice low and careful. “Just nosy.”
August looks from Derby to the dog. “Why is he mayor?”
Derby steps around Mayor McCoy and comes inside, giving the dog and August both space. “Because folks in Hell make questionable decisions.”
Sophie lifts her cup. “Democracy is complicated.”
Mayor McCoy’s tail thumps once.
August watches him for a long second. He doesn’t reach for him. He doesn’t smile yet.
But he picks his fork back up.
The dog flops stays in the doorway, patient as a saint and shameless as a politician.
When August is distracted with his eggs, Sophie looks at me.
There it is.
The shift.
Not unkind.
But business.
“We need to talk about today.”
She shoos Derby away.
“I’ll go enjoy my coffee.”
Sophie waits until he’s out of earshot.
My stomach tightens. “Jeremy?”
“Yes. And August.”
My hand moves to my son’s back. “What about him?”
Sophie’s face softens, but her eyes stay direct. “This clubhouse is no place for a five-year-old.”
The words hit like a slap because I already know they’re true.