“A Mercedes, huh? Some out-of-towner?” Robbie asks casually.

“Well, it don’t got snow tires on it, that’s for sure.” Cal winks.

Robbie heaves a bag of the milk replacer over his shoulder.

“I’m going to drive by after I close up. Bet it has to do with that al-ter-cation at the care home.” He gives the ten-dollar word deliberate emphasis and slants a too-innocent glance over his shoulder as he leads Robbie on a zig-zagging path toward a row of big plastic bottles next to the birdseed. “Y’all still close with Lance Taylor?”

Robbie is spared answering that question because the landline phone rings.

“Be back in a sec,” Cal says, and heads for the counter.

Robbie grabs an extra bottle, then follows and sets all of his supplies by the register.

“What was that? The twelve-footer? Let me just check.” Cal has the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear while he thumbs through a supplier catalogue.

Robbie settles in to wait, thinking about the gossip he just heard. An out-of-town Mercedes in impound, and a stranded Lance who Robbie retrieved from jail two days ago; an altercation at the care home, where Robbie knows Lance’s father lives.

“Or there’s a sixteen-foot panel, but that’s not in stock,” Cal is saying, and he looks like he isn’t going to be done answering the caller’s questions any time soon.

So, Robbie finds himself wandering from the counter to a few displays adjacent to the door that he didn’t notice when he came in. He knows the farm store started selling some locally produced items a couple years ago, but he’s rarely thought to browse them.

There’s a table of honey, but not just the kind meant for eating—though that’s there, in little jars adorned by hand with paper labels and ribbon. There’s also small, vacuum-sealed chunks of raw honeycomb and a row of beeswax candles.

Next to the honey is a rack of hand-sewn purses in vivid prints and colors that make Robbie wrinkle his nose. Maybe he has an old-fashioned aesthetic, but he doesn’t see the appeal.

His eyes linger on the shelves next to the purses, where raw wood bowls and boxes display artisan soaps. He reaches for a bar and holds it to his nose, smelling the rich odor of pine over the damp scent of his glove. Pleased, he puts it back and tries another.

This one smells familiar and unique at the same time, and so pleasant that he takes a second inhale. Then, he studies the label. Sandalwood. The soap was molded to look like a thistle flower. When he runs his fingertip over the dozens of narrow petals, he can feel its pleasant roughness.

For no reason that he can explain, Robbie imagines the soap worked into a lather over Lance’s white-gold skin, and his head swims. He’s never had thoughts like this about anyone, but he can picture the scene vividly. Lance’s hairless hands running all over his body, working the soap into his skin, leaving him bright-smelling and clean. And then, Robbie could put his face against the nape of Lance’s neck and smell this scent on him, like Robbie himself had marked him.