“August Boone Ryder,” Emmy said, still squinting—like she was trying to see me better. “Is that…a smile?” “No,” I lied. I could feel the smile creeping up my face. Emmy stepped toward me and poked me in the cheek—right in the dimple that rarely showed itself. “It is!” she exclaimed. “Teddy, what are you doing to him?” Please god, don’t answer that.
