The sun blazed over Libertyville’s annual Fourth of July picnic, a star-spangled spectacle of red, white, and blue excess. The park was a kaleidoscope of American pride: flags fluttered from every tree, a barbershop quartet crooned “Sweet Land of Liberty” off-key, and Uncle Sam himself—Carl from the hardware store in a striped top hat—waddled through the crowd handing out sparklers to sticky-fingered kids. The air smelled of apple pie, burnt hot dogs, and freedom.

At the center of it all stood Betsy Ross—well, Betsy Reynolds, the town librarian, drafted into colonial cosplay with a corset and a wig that looked like a powdered poodle had exploded on her head. She tugged at her star-spangled apron and muttered, “If I have to sew one more flag today, I’m defecting to Canada.”

Enter Johnny “Rocket” Malone, Libertyville’s firework technician, with a grin as wide as the Mississippi. His denim shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tattoo of a bald eagle clutching a Roman candle across his chest.

“Betsy, darlin’,” he drawled, tipping his cowboy hat. “You look like the Declaration of Independence in heels. Care to join me for some patriotic potato salad?”

He held out a bowl piled high with mayo-slathered spuds, garnished with toothpick flags.

Betsy rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “That salad’s so American it’s probably chanting ‘U-S-A’ under all that mayo.” She grabbed a spoon anyway, and they plopped onto a checkered blanket, surrounded by the chaotic glory of Libertyville: kids playing tug-of-war with a flag-striped rope, Aunt Mabel’s cherry pie drawing a swarm of bees, and the mayor fumbling through a speech about “liberty and hot dogs” while dodging a rogue frisbee.