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had seemed too close to where he’d grown up. Or maybe it had just seemed too small.
    Willowboro had never been prosperous or historically significant. Unlike other nearby towns, which had hosted Civil War battles and bunkered generals, Willowboro’s wartime role was to receive the bodies of the dead after the Battle of Antietam. This ghoulish task had taken place in the town’s livery stables, now the site of Weddle’s Nursing Home. The place gave Dean the creeps, but he had to visit it every October with his players. They would sing fight songs, and then Dean would give an overview of the season, with slides. It was called “A Night with the Coach,” and it was open to the whole town. The point was to get people to visit their infirm relatives, and it worked. Only Christmastime was busier.
    Dean turned right at the stoplight, driving past the four businesses that were the cornerstones of Willowboro’s social life: Asaro’s Pizza, Mike’s Video Time, Jenny’s Luncheonette, and the post office. Willow Park was tucked behind them, asmall but quaint landscape with arched stone bridges, wooden pavilions, playgrounds, and, of course, willow trees—the grandchildren of the original trees, planted at the turn of the century. Before it was called Willowboro, the town was called Weddle, for its founding brothers. Dean thought that the dopey, sleepy-sounding “Weddle” was more fitting.
    Willowboro was bounded by two stoplights, and the town quickly thinned out on either side of them, the sidewalks petering out to accommodate the shoulders of wider roads. The Legion Hall, with its beige siding and sloping black roof, marked the edge of town. The football banquet, homecoming dance, and prom were held there every year. A half mile past the Legion Hall was Shank’s Produce, which was owned by Dean’s sort-of in-laws, Vivian and Walter Shank. The Shanks were the parents of Nicole’s first husband, Sam. Sam was buried ten miles from here, and after the Shanks moved away, they talked about getting him exhumed to a cemetery closer to them. Nicole thought they said things like this to get under her skin, but Dean thought they were just odd people. Stephanie liked them, though. And they were a good influence. He doubted she’d be going to a college like Swarthmore if they hadn’t pushed her to apply.
    The new Sheetz loomed ahead, bright red and yellow and simple in design, like something a kid would make with Legos. Dean stopped to fill up and then decided to go ahead and get some subs for dinner. It was the third time this week they’d had them, but it was the only thing the boys ate with any kind of appetite.
    He ran into Jimmy Smoot in the parking lot. He was with a girl Dean didn’t recognize and drinking a mouthwash-blueFreeze. His Adam’s apple bulged in his skinny, razor-burned neck and Dean thought that Garrett was wrong; this kid was not going to bulk up, not ever.
    â€œHey, Coach,” Smoot said. “You tried these? It’s team colors.”
    â€œYou should drink chocolate milk after practice. You need protein with your carbohydrates.”
    The girl crossed her arms. “Plus milk doesn’t give you Smurf lips.”
    â€œThis is my sister, Missy,” Smoot said. “She’s going to be a freshman this year.”
    â€œ Melissa, ” the girl corrected. She was tall, like her brother, and had his rangy, broad-shouldered frame, which she accentuated by wearing oversized clothing: baggy jean shorts and a black T-shirt with the word HOLE on it. Layered over the T-shirt was a short-sleeved button-down, also oversized. The ensemble was intensely unflattering, but Dean recognized it as “alt style.” Stephanie had explained this term to him when she began to dress in the same way.
    â€œAre you an athlete, like your brother?” Dean asked her.
    â€œMissy’s going out for cheer squad,” Smoot said.