Elias froze. "Tart cherries. Fresh, if you have them. Frozen or jarred if you don't."
"Looking for the sour stuff?" a voice rasped from behind a wall of honey jars.
Marty, a man who looked like he was carved out of an old apple tree, stepped into the light. "Fresh season is blink-and-you-miss-it, kid. Usually July, mostly up in Michigan or Utah. You're a few months off for the orchards." Elias deflated. "I need them for tonight."
The neon sign outside "Marty’s Produce" flickered, casting a buzzing red glow over Elias’s boots. He had been to four grocery stores already. Each time, he asked the same question. Each time, he got the same shrug.
"A memory," Elias corrected, tucking the heavy jars under his arm and stepping back out into the cool evening, finally heading home to bake. AI responses may include mistakes. Learn more
Marty chuckled and pointed a calloused finger toward the back corner. "I don't stock the fresh ones this late, but I keep the 'baking gold' in the glass jars. Grown in Traverse City. Packed in their own juice. No sugar added."
He pushed open the creaky door. The air smelled of damp earth and cedar.
