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can hear Carly and Nathan catching up to us.”
    “Okay,” I said, pushing myself.
    “Want to go to the Las ABC after? To look stuff over?” asked Will.
    The Las Abuelitas Bakery Café had booths with high sides and lots of privacy. And every good thing made of butter and sugar.
    “I’d love to,” I said. It was practically a date. We approached another narrow stretch and I shouldered my way in front, thundering across a single-file wooden bridge.
    “No fair!” said Will.
    I laughed, my legs pumping crazy-fast.
    Coach was shaking his head and glaring as we pulled past him, completing the 7K. “Not good enough, Ms. Ruiz, Mr. Baker.”
    Coach gave the two of us trash detail after practice for twenty minutes, which meant all the warm water was gone by the time I got to the lockers. That was okay; I was hot. I was thirsty, which meant I was already dehydrated. I felt exhausted, but my heart sang. Will had my back and things were going to be fine.

    Chapter Three
    LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    I looked through rippled glass set into the river-rock wall of Las ABC, the place Gwyn’s mom opened last year. Will grabbed the front door, which held a massive oval of beveled glass set in an oak frame, hand-carved and probably paid for in gold-dust from Bella Fria Creek back during the California Gold Rush. We slipped inside.
    It smelled intoxicating—like Sylvia’s kitchen at Christmas: brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon. On the bakery-case bottom row sat thick-frosted brownies, layer cakes, and a berry pie—probably syllaberry , the drought-tolerant hybrid my dad invented. The middle row displayed cookies, all at a kid’s eye level. Monster cookies with M&Ms. Snickerdoodles.
    Crinkled molasses cookies. And at my eye-level? Doily-ed plates of pastries: European bear claws and croissants beside Mexican pan de huevos and cinnamon-sugar coated polvorones .
    I’d spent most of my allowance here the past year.
    Gwyn waved, helping guests with her mom, Bridget, who remembered me from before
    and still called me Sammy. As Will and I waited to order, a fluffball cat wrapped himself around my legs, purring.
    Will leaned in, saying, “I’ll go grab that last booth.”
    “Don’t you want anything?” I asked.
    “Ice water?” He dropped down to retie a broken shoelace to itself. “I’m not really
    hungry.” He gave me a smile, stood, and walked back to the booth.
    I frowned; I knew Will and Mick didn’t have much. My own allowance was ridiculous,
    way more than I needed. Would he feel insulted if I bought him something?
    I ordered an ice water, a syllaberry bubble tea, and two orders of polvorones. Bridget grinned and popped two quarters into a large jar labeled “Feline Assistance Fund” on the counter.
    The grey fluff-ball at my feet meowed, and Bridget noticed him as she handed me a flyer.
    “You naughty cat. Why can’t you stay in the kennels?”
    I smiled, taking the flyer. It announced an event called “Panning for Felines” happening on Labor Day.
    “Rufus is not allowed in the bakery, Gwyneth,” said Bridget. “How many times do I
    have to tell you?”
    “Like I’m the boss of him,” Gwyn replied.
    “Grab the register while I make a bubble tea,” Bridget said to Gwyn, dashing to the kitchen. “And get Rufus out.”
    “I did not let him in, Ma,” Gwyn said. “Did she hit you up for the gold panning fundraiser yet?”
    I waved the flyer in reply.
    “You have a new best friend.” She pointed to Rufus, purring loudly at my feet. “He’s adoptable, you know.”
    “I’m not what you’d call a ‘cat-person,’” I reminded her.
    “Cats aren’t for everyone. Only, don’t say that in front of Ma,” she said, rolling her eyes.
    “We’re up to fifteen or sixteen in the cattery. I forget. Hence, the fund raiser.” She pointed to the stack of colored flyers. “We need pledge sponsors for each hour we pan in case we don’t find much gold.”

    “You’ll find flakes,” I said. “Maybe