Maybe that was what happened to Mr. Jamison.

“This is the fire station.” She looked up. “It’s the tallest building in town.”

It was a little crumbly around the edges but stately. The redbrick walls and leaded arched windows gave the impression that the first fire engine Moose Creek ever parked inside might’ve been pulled by horses. Jeremy dutifully admired it, and then they walked on.

“The post office and pharmacy.”

“Combined?”

“It’s a long story.” Bea chuckled to herself thinking about how she grew up believing it was normal for those two businesses to share a building. “And here’s the newspaper office.”

The Moose Creek Messenger went to print twice a week, every Tuesday and Friday.

“What do they—” Jeremy hesitated, like he wanted to choose his words carefully—“write about?”

Bea laughed. “High school sports mostly. And local news.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, police reports and community events and stuff. There was a whole exposé on Mr. Stuart’s goat one time.”

“Mr. Stuart has a goat?”

“Well, he did. It kept breaking out of his yard after dinner and coming back every night at nine, and no one could figure out why.”

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Someone at Peggy’s Place was taking the trash out to the alley every night at eight-thirty.” She paused for dramatic effect. “The goat would hide out until they went back inside, raid the garbage, then trot on home.”

She tried to interpret the look on Jeremy’s face. He was amused by the story, but there was something else, too. What did he really think of Moose Creek? It didn’t have all the bells and whistles of the city. It was a fishbowl she’d been eager to escape. But she’d learned quickly that a faster pace and greater population density didn’t make life better. Didn’t make you feel less alone.

Didn’t change your memories.

Jeremy caught her expression and grinned. “It’s charming, that’s all. It all feels so Mayberry. I wish I’d grown up in a place like this. You were lucky.”

Maybe that was true. Maybe she was fortunate to have belonged to a place like this. But things were different now. She wasn’t sure where she belonged anymore.

“Here’s the Food Farm.”

The market had a dozen fliers taped to the large front window. A handwritten one said a kid named Wyatt wanted to earn money doing yard work. One from the school said they were selling butter braids to raise money for new basketball uniforms for the junior high team. A neon orange one said HELP WANTED. Nothing had changed.

A bell jingled as they entered. A giant of a man with a bristly salt-and-pepper beard looked up from the cash register and gave a triumphant shout. “Bea! It’s about time.”