Customers dwindled as closing time neared, but Dana was still picking out pears, trying to decide between organic and “conventional.” Could she afford organic? Would just a little pesticide be such an awful thing? As she stood squinting at the yellow-green fruit, Dana’s peripheral vision caught someone looking in her direction. When she glanced up, it took her a moment to put a name to the face: Nora Kinnear, Kimmi’s mother. Oddly enough, her gaze was directed to Dana’s feet. Dana looked down to see that she still wore the ragged sneakers she used for yard work. Before heading to the store, she’d remembered to exchange her dusty sweatshirt for a clean fleece jacket. But the sneakers—grizzled with dirt, threads unraveling at the toe—had come along for the ride. “Dana, right?” Dana glanced up to the elegant composure of Nora’s face and felt her stomach go hollow. “Oh, hi!” she said. “Isn’t this a great time to shop? We practically have the place to ourselves.”
