Chapter 5: The Unluckiest Man

Splinters of red paint skittered across the boards and stopped against my shoes.

The diner door flew open.

A big man burst out holding a fire extinguisher.

Flannel sleeves rolled to the elbow. Messy dark hair. A day of stubble. Paint on his knuckles.

He looked at the sign, then at me, then at the little girl.

"Marigold. Are you hurt?"

"No. She almost was." The girl pointed at me. "I told her not to stand there."

"You told her to not stand there after it started falling?"

"It's still telling."

He set the extinguisher down and crouched in front of me. His eyes were gray and very serious.

"Did any of it hit you?"

"No."

"Your feet?"

"Still attached."

He sat back on his heels, tension leaving his face.

There was a shiny burn scar across the back of his right hand.

"I'm sorry. I meant to bolt that sign last week. Then the walk-in freezer died. Then the freezer guy's truck died in the lot."

"Then his phone died," Marigold said.

"Then his phone died."

Across the pier, an old man in a fishing vest came out of the bait shop. He looked at the sign and wrote something on his chalkboard.

DAYS SINCE ARLO'S LAST DISASTER: 0

Under it, in smaller letters: Record is 6.

"Thanks, neighbor," the big man called.

"Anytime," the old man said, and went back inside.

The big man held out his scarred hand.

"Arlo Garroway. I run the diner. Mostly it runs me."

"Noelle."

He didn't add a last name for me. I liked him for that.

"Uncle Arlo is the unluckiest man in Oceana," Marigold said. "It was in the paper."

"It was a letter to the editor."

"The paper printed it."

He looked at me with the face of a man who'd lost this argument before.

"Come in. The least I can do is feed you."

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