I’ve got my system down, although Nonny—and a whole lot of other folks—would still insist I have no business doing it. But I’m used to dealing with minor freak-outs whenever I do stuff that’s a little risky. Besides, what other people think I can or can’t do doesn’t matter.

These are the things that matter.

I’m Emelyn Ethrige. I’m twelve and a half years old. Alejandra Che is my best friend.

I like Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

And I love speed.

2

Embroidered Cusswords?

Inside, I clean the road rash on my arm and make sure I’m not banged up anyplace else, and Ale raids the kitchen cabinets for some snacks. I collect Dad’s laptop from the coffee table. Then we head to my room, and I line up a playlist while Ale checks orders in our online shop.

“I’ve got two Spanish moss and one pine cone box,” she announces. Then she clicks over to my shop. “And you’ve got two fatwoods and another bag.”

We may live out in the middle of Carolina scrubland, where the soil looks more like beach sand and everything green turns fried-up brown by early July, but Ale and I are experts at selling what we scavenge or make. Because we are entrepreneurs with goals.

Ale opens my closet to check inventory. We keep our supplies in my room, because Ale’s two little brothers cannot be trusted to keep their mitts to themselves.

“We’ve got moss,” she reports, “and wood bundles, but we need more cones.”

The best part about our business is that most of what we sell is scrounged from right outside. There are ten acres between our places, half covered in scrubby loblolly and longleaf pines that drop endless perfect cones. The Spanish moss grows on most everything that doesn’t move, and tons of people—mostly in cities where trees don’t exist, I guess—buy this stuff.

“If you go grab some,” I tell Ale, “I’ll do the moss and the fatwoods.”

Ale grabs a bucket and runs outside while I get started. The moss orders are simple—wrestle the long, twisty strings into small plastic bags, put them in padded envelopes, add addresses, and record the sale. Next, the fatwood.

Fatwood bundles are basically sticks. But not just any sticks—these are special, pitch-soaked wood that make it super easy to light a fire. You just start with a small chunk of stump, carefully split off thin, six-inch lengths, tie up a bunch of them with a ribbon or pretty fabric—instant rustic gift! Since Ale’s not back when I finish the four packages, I fire up the sewing machine and work on my bag orders.

The custom-made wheelchair bags don’t exactly fit our theme and sort of happened by accident. When I started carrying a lot of books for school, regular backpacks always got too full. When I’d hang them behind my chair, they’d sometimes pull my balance backward or fall off the handgrips. So last spring I designed my own schoolbags—lightweight, rugged, made to stay perfectly on the back or side of a chair.