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He doesn’t stop as he passes, and the fluffy dog follows him to the kitchen. Shaking my head, I stagger toward the light.

Five minutes later, we’re in the truck, and I’m no morning person but I have to say, the golden sunrise over the hills covered in short trees heavy with green leaves and ripe peaches is pretty special. A misting of dew makes it shine.

Sawyer has his cap pulled down low as he drives, and he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s been pretty focused since we left Nashville yesterday evening. I guess coming home can be stressful, even if you own the place and your best friend volunteered to come back and help settle things.

“That’s some dog.” My elbow is propped on the open window and the warm breeze wraps around us in the cab.

“She’s Noel’s.” He’s driving slow down a narrow, dirt road.

He’s told me a little about his kid sister, skinned knees and pigtails, chasing jackrabbits.

“Where we headed?”

“Harristown central.” He cracks a hint of a smile, and I’m glad to see he’s not brooding.

“Where’s that?”

“You’ll see.”

We continue at twenty miles per hour until we reach a paved, two-lane highway. He takes a right, heading into the small town, and I think he’ll speed up.

He doesn’t.

Looking down at my phone, I see I have zero cell service. “No Verizon out here?”

He casts me a glance. “Who you trying to call?”

“I was gonna let Patton and Marley know we made it.”

“I got a landline at the house.”

Pressing my lips together, I give him a nod. It’s like that. Great.

Five more minutes and we’re pulling off on a service road, up to a truck stop with a Denny’s restaurant attached. Several trucks are parked near the entrance and men in jeans and caps climb out slowly, adjusting the top of their britches and stretching.

“Denny’s?” I shoot him a skeptical look.

He just shrugs. “It’s how they’ve always done it.”

“Done what?”

“Sorted out the schedule of workers for harvest.”

“You don’t have your own workers for harvest?”

“I’m about to.”

He shifts the truck into park, adjusts his cap, and gets out. I follow him inside at the same slow pace as the rest of the old-timers filtering through the doors. On my mind is our conversation a few weeks back, when we were getting our assignments, talking about leaving the country.

He’d told me all about the hundred-acre farm he inherited from his dad in north Louisiana, and I’d said I’d like to see it sometime.

I don’t have much family left in Nashville, besides my buddies Patton Fletcher and Martin “Marley” Randall. We enlisted together hoping to get the same assignment, which luckily, we did.

Sawyer fell right in with Patton, Marley, and me on our first day, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. When he asked me to come home with him, to help him get everything in order before we ship out, I figured why not? I’d just be wasting time, partying too hard if I spent a month in Nashville waiting.

“Welcome the hometown hero,” a voice calls to us from across the room.

“Not yet.” Sawyer clasps hands with a man who looks at least twenty years older than us. “How’s the team this year?”