Grandma drove us past the gas station we had seen when we’d first come through. The old men were still out there in their foldout chairs, Benny and Les, and they stopped their arguing long enough to watch us pass by. The lady with the gray ponytail was there too, and she waved a hand at us, cigarette burning between her fingers.

Murphy and I waved back, and the lady smiled.

Grandma drove us through Benign, every tiny wrecked street of it. Houses worn down, porches sagging, old folks sitting outside and staring at the street. A couple of redheaded kids on bikes rode past, peering at us, suspicious. They followed our truck a few blocks, only to turn back and then show up in front of us again, watching us pass. Several shuttered churches, their clever jokey signs now unreadable for rot and missing letters. The only thriving business was a Sonic, cars lined up in all the spots, folks sitting in their truck beds eating soft ice cream.

“This place is a dump,” said Murphy.

“Yes,” said Grandma. “It’s taken a turn for the worse in the last twenty years.”

“What happened?” I said.

“The recession,” said Grandma. “Among other things. And here we are.”

Grandma pulled into the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly in desperate need of a paint job. Its big gleaming pig head logo leered down at us with some kind of deranged smirk. The parking lot was potholed and crumbling, and abandoned grocery carts lingered forlorn against the light poles.

“It isn’t much,” said Grandma, “but it’s all we’ve got. That’s why I’m so determined to get the Farm going again. Folks deserve decent vegetables around here, at the very least.”

We stepped out of the car and across the trash-strewn parking lot and through the great glass sliding doors of the Piggly Wiggly.

The grocery store was packed. A third of the town had to be in there, and they were all dressed to the nines like they were headed off to church or something. Men wore suits in black and brown and blue, and women wore fancy hats and dresses. It was deeply strange but also kind of cool. I guessed there just wasn’t anything else to do in Benign on a Saturday. All through the aisles people stopped to greet us.

“Hi, Mrs. Sanford,” said one lady with poofy black hair and a purple dress. “Who’s that you got with you?”

“Jenny’s kids,” she said. “Murphy, and this is Lee.”

“Ah, Lee!” said the lady, grasping my hands in her cold wrinkly fingers. “What a pleasure it is to meet you. What an absolute joy.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Um . . . it’s nice to meet you too.”

“Oh, what a gentleman he is,” she said. “Hope to see you again soon.”