“Emily,” she instructed, her voice thick with emotion. “Put your shoes on. You and your father are being summoned outside. Right now.”
I grabbed my worn sneakers and hurried downstairs. Dad was already standing by the front door, looking as bewildered as I felt. He reached out, grabbed the brass handle, and pulled the door open.
The instant we stepped onto the porch, the deafening roar of the engines was killed in unison. The sudden, absolute silence was more intimidating than the noise. Every single face in the crowd turned to lock eyes with us.
The man positioned at the very front of the pack took a deliberate step forward. It was Rick.
For a long, agonizing second, nobody moved. The air was thick with tension. I felt incredibly small, a fragile sick kid standing before a formidable army of outlaws.
“Rick?” Dad finally called out, his voice betraying a hint of nervous confusion. “What the hell is going on here?”
Rick slowly scratched his thick, graying beard, his gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd. Then, a slow, wide grin broke across his weathered face.
“You didn’t honestly think we were going to let you steal all the spotlight after that pathetic display of a performance, did you?” Rick boomed.
