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and the smoke alarm (hopefully) brings her back to reality.
    Summer, however, is different, because in the midst of all these farms, there are roadside stands, fertile with the bounty of the season in Ohio: crisp, sweet, Silver Queen corn; perfectly ripe, yielding tomatoes the size of baseballs; delicately flavored cucumbers with satisfyingly watery flesh; strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, peaches—a dizzying array of colors, lush with juice. Often, in summer, this is all we eat, a table laden with fruits and vegetables, and Rose saw as she entered the kitchen that this was the case that night. Fortunate, as this also meant dinner would be ready before the crickets came out in earnest.
    Bean popped a berry in her mouth and reached out under her legs for another, the bright greens nestled on top. She twisted the huller expertly and the head popped off. Seven in one blow. “What happened to the bookstore?” she asked. She had noticed, on the drive in, the empty windows of the storefront, the sign that read, in angry letters, FINAL CLEARANCE!
    Walking up beside our mother, Rose picked up one of the naked, pale cucumbers and began slicing it thinly, setting it in rounds on a platter beside her. We always ate the cucumbers and tomatoes the same way, pushed together in stacked ovals and drizzled with sharp balsamic vinegar and fresh-ground pepper. Rose’s mouth watered at the thought.
    “Oh, it’s a disaster,” our mother said. “They’ve gotten too big for their britches, really. Remember how they used to handle the textbooks for Barney?” We did. Barnwell, the name of both the town and the college where our father taught and therefore all three of us had matriculated, with varying degrees of success, had not had a bookstore of its own for years. The bookstore in town, nestled between a diner famous for its White Castle-esque burgers and the post office, took that honor, and during textbook sale and buyback season it was crammed with college students, looking hungry and desperate among the hand-knitted throws and souvenir Rice Krispie treats in the shape of the state (which, in Ohio, is not so far from the shape of a normal Rice Krispie treat).
    “Uh-huh,” Bean said, flicking a strawberry into the bowl with a gentle ping.
    “Well, they said they didn’t want to sell the textbooks anymore, accused the students of shoplifting, basically.”
    “They were shoplifting,” Bean interrupted. “Their textbooks were a total rip-off.” She remembered a friend of hers, a goateed, handsome boy with enthusiastically curly black hair, telling her the only reason he owned his winter coat was because the pockets were big enough to fit a chemistry book in.
    “Textbooks are expensive everywhere,” Rose said.
    “I’m sure not all the students were shoplifting,” our mother continued. “In any case, I don’t know what they were thinking. All those parents coming into town, wanting souvenirs, and now they are going to the booster store on campus instead for their sweatshirts and what-have-you.”
    “So they closed?”
    “Not at first. First they opened one of those coffee bars, which was a good idea, but Maura hadn’t the slightest idea how to run one. Barnwell Beanery is still open, you know, and the competition was too much.”
    “Oh, you know who runs the Beanery now?” Rose asked. “Dan Miller. Didn’t he graduate with you?”
    “Yeah,” Bean said, and she blinked a few times in surprise before she shifted and hopped off the counter, carrying the small bowl of discarded strawberry greens over to the trash can. She pressed her foot on the pedal and the lid popped obediently open. “Man, he’s still living here? That’s crazy.”
    “Bean? Compost?” our mother said, raising her eyebrows and gesturing with the knife toward the container to the left of the trash can. Too late. Bean shook the last of the strawberry tops into the trash can. She shrugged, as though it had been out of her hands, and walked the