When she crested the nearest hill, her breathing labored, her lungs burning, Sugar Snap Farms came into view. The memory of the last time she was there came flooding back—peering through the slat in the barn, watching the Winters arguing, and worst of all, seeing the carnage that magical backfire had done to Grady’s arm and face. The Winters were desperate, angry, and fighting for the survival of their farm. She pulled her bike up on the other side of the farmland a good two hundred yards from the barn, intent on doing a little shopping. Clover had frequented the roadside stand the Winters had built to sell vegetables and fruit to the locals on many occasions. A long table was covered in baskets filled with peach berries, but not much else. Surrounded by heaps of the fragrant berries, a young witch, with thick black eyeliner and a wild mane of black hair with blue streaks, sat on a stool, reading a book. To Clover’s relief, there was no one else around. After parking her bike near the stand, she said, “Looks like a slow morning.”
