Mr. Jamison selected a small bulb of garlic. “I suppose you heard about Earl.”

She frowned. “No. What happened?”

“He’s all right.” Mr. Jamison patted her arm. “Only madder than a hornet. His grandkids got together and staged an intervention of sorts. Took away his keys.”

“To the four-wheeler? Oh dear.”

“I’m afraid so.” Mr. Jamison threw up his hands. “They didn’t want him causing an accident, you know. Perfectly understandable. But the man is heartbroken.”

Bea thought of Jeremy. He had been right. “I bet.”

“Now they’re threatening to get him signed up for one of those social workers for the elderly. They’re supposed to keep tabs on you, I guess. Make sure you take your pills every day or something, I’m not really sure.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I best be off.” Mr. Jamison tipped his hat. “Have a good day, Ms. Michaels.”

She set the last head of broccoli down as he walked away. It was pretty leggy. But did she want to care about that? Did she want to spend her time worrying about produce? This job was meant to be temporary, but that’s what Kathy had intended when she first started here, too. And she ended up working the Food Farm morning shift for twenty-three years.

It wasn’t that Bea hated the job. She liked stocking and organizing and keeping things tidy. She liked helping people and seeing familiar faces every day. But the meat cooler broke down once a week, and MacGregor spent the beginning of every shift grumbling about how Costco was killing him. This wasn’t how she pictured her future. She’d always wanted to do something more . . . meaningful.

Her phone vibrated in her back pocket, and she pulled it out. MacGregor didn’t mind his employees checking their messages during shifts, so long as they got their work done. It was a text from Jeremy.

On break from potatoes. Have you called the doctor yet?

Her stomach sank. Since they weren’t paying rent or utilities right now, her paychecks were going straight into savings. But every time she researched healthcare costs online, the number of expenses they should be prepared to pay grew larger.

No.

You promised.

I’ll do it when I get off work.

She’d have to take the time to look up doctors in Ponderosa. No way was she going to call the clinic in Moose Creek. Ruth Anne, the LPN who worked there four days a week, had cared for hundreds of pregnant Moose Creek women over the years, even delivering many of their babies when the road to Ponderosa was impassable or there wasn’t enough time to make the drive. But Bea didn’t want to be seen going into the narrow yellow building on Mule Deer Road. No way.

How’s it going on the belt?

I’m working alongside a 300-pound man with a handlebar mustache who likes to tell jokes.