Jeremy started the car and gave her a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

“It’ll pass.”

She pulled a Saltine from her pocket and nibbled on it. She’d learned to always keep some crackers in her coat in case the nausea got bad.

“I wish you’d go see the doctor.” Jeremy navigated a pothole and turned down Town Road. “Maybe they could give you medicine or something.”

“I don’t think that’s how morning sickness works. But I’ll call next week.”

She rolled down her window and leaned an arm out. There was a chill in the air this morning that hadn’t been there yesterday, but it felt good on her flushed face. How long was this morning sickness stuff supposed to last? Mom would tell her everything she needed to know, if she were here.

Bea pictured Marge standing in the kitchen and frowned.

They reached Main Street, and Jeremy pulled up to the Bridger Brew Coffee Hut. “I miss Starbucks.”

“It’s only been one week.”

“And fast food.”

“There’s a Subway inside the gas station.”

“That doesn’t count.”

Jeremy ordered his drink, then pulled back onto the road and pointed. “What are those flags for?”

Blue-and-gold flags lined Main Street from one end to the other.

She spoke around another bite of cracker. “It’s Friday.”

“So?”

“Game day. The Moose Creek Spuds play the Whitehall Trojans tonight.”

“Football?”

“Yep.”

Jeremy squinted at the flags flapping in the brisk wind. “They’re called the Spuds?”

Bea rolled her eyes. “I know. It’s because of all the potato farms south of here. Other schools make fun of us.”

“Why not the Moose Creek Mooses? Meese? Okay, I see why.”

She smiled at him. “It’s not so bad to be a Spud. Everyone loves potatoes.”

“I thought potatoes came from Idaho.”

“At least fifteen states mass-produce potatoes, Jeremy.” She gave him a playful whack on the shoulder. “Don’t you know anything about agriculture?”

He grinned. “Um, no. I don’t.”

“Idaho produces the potatoes people eat. Our valley grows seed potatoes. And sells them to Idaho.”

“So this is where French fries begin?”

She leaned her head against the inside of the door. “Something like that.”

“And what is that shop over there?” He pointed his latte in the direction of a tiny store with the word ANTLERS painted on the window in white block letters.

“Marty Van Dyken owns that place. He makes sculptures and furniture out of antlers.”

“That sounds really cool.”

Bea turned away as the shop disappeared from sight. It was cool. Mr. Van Dyken created amazing and unique art in that shop. But there wasn’t a single customer in sight.