There’s no ramp, though, no way to get to the front or back door, so Mom has to go up and knock for me. Mrs. Akers steps out and gives Mom a big hug. I know Bert’s dad from years of shopping at Food & Co., but I haven’t met his mom before. She doesn’t look anything like I pictured, like Mrs. Claus or Mother Goose or whatever you look like after having thirteen kids. She’s tiny, with a neat gray bob, and she’s shouldering a satchel that looks a lot like Bert’s. I forgot she does all the accounting for Food & Co. I guess Bert gets his smarts from all sides. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mom nods and smiles and walks back to me as Mrs. Akers gets in her car and drives off.

“Bert’s out back, honey. Want me to push you?”

“Nah, I got it.”

I roll across the grass toward the backyard before she can ask me why I needed an emergency visit to Bert’s. I didn’t tell her I was actually hoping to catch Mr. Akers.

But when I come around the corner and into the yard, there’s nobody there at all. Just a few apple trees and a patch of weedy garden near a shed. I look back, but Mom has already disappeared down the drive.

“Hello!” I yell, and a couple of birds shoot off from their spot on the telephone wire.

The door to the shed creaks open and Bert’s head pops out. His hair is crazier than usual—like a Chia Pet.

“Ellie.”

“Bert.”

He looks embarrassed, like I caught him stealing or smoking or watching anything on the CW.

“Uh, I was actually looking for your dad. I wanted to ask him a few questions about some spices he might have in the store. But, uh, I can come back.”

“No. Stay.” He walks down the little ramp from the shed but then just stands there. I forget sometimes that without Coralee around, Bert can be hard to talk to.

I rock a little in my chair. Some of the blossoms from the cherry trees land on my shoulder. Bert reaches down to pick them off, and I see he’s got something in his hand.

“What is that?”

He pulls it back and looks down, like he forgot it was there. We both look together. It’s a tree. A tiny tree carved out of clay, no bigger than a dime.

“This is a blackjack oak, native to the Southwest, particularly here in Eufaula.”

He holds it up an inch from my nose.

I look closer. It really does look just like the trees all over town.

He cups it and points to the shed. “Well, you’re here now, so I might as well show you.”