By the time we pull in to Food & Co., I can tell I’ve been in my chair too long. My legs ache and I can feel the seat rubbing a bruise into my tailbone.

There’s a crisscrossing of yellow tape over the front window of the store. And the brick along the bottom is all toppled over. It looks like a crime scene. Which I guess it is.

“What are we doing here?”

“Damage control,” Mom mutters as the streetlights flicker on in the darkness of the gray afternoon.

Ever since I got my first pink wheelchair at four and began to notice all the things I could and couldn’t reach, Food & Co. has been my favorite place. It’s like a crippled kid’s dream. Everything’s set out in barrels and low shelves and little round tables. Orange and pink and yellow taffy sits in a huge bucket by the register, and homemade sausage biscuits stay warm all day in their plastic wrap under the heat lamps. If you swing by the deli, you can always beg free samples of cheese, and the bakery will give you free fudge, without nuts, which everybody knows is the best. It’s like the original version of Cracker Barrel.

Today we go straight to customer service, which is actually just a desk next to the stand where they sell stamps and boxes for mailing. Mr. Akers is there, as always. I know he’s a good bit younger than Grandpa, but his hair’s completely white and he wears glasses that take up half his face. He is the friendly owl you might meet in the forest. He smiles at us now, even though we’re related to the man who wrecked his window.

“Well, Ellie Cowan, you are a vision!”

“Hi, Mr. Akers.”

He claps his hands and rubs them together like he’s warming them up, before holding one out to shake.

“And how are you, Alice?”

“How are you, Walter?”

Mom does this, answers a question with a question, when she’s getting ready to make a point. I think it was part of her teacher training.

“Well now, we, uh, had a bit of a run-in, as you well know. How’s Jonah? How’s his nose?”

“That’s what I came to speak with you about.” Mom pulls him off to the side, around behind the stamp stand.

Suddenly I’m starving. My stomach gurgles and I can feel it all the way down to my toes. I go searching for the sausage biscuits and grab a package of Hostess CupCakes on the way. The New York Times chefs wouldn’t approve, but I love how, if you’re real careful, you can pull the squiggle off the top in one long line.