Back when we lived in the city, there were six different stores just on my block. When we moved to Petersville, there were just three in the whole town. There was Turnby’s, where Harley Turnby sold whatever he felt like for whatever he thought he could get away with, which in Petersville wasn’t much. Next to that was the General Store, where Winnie Hammond sold hardware and eggs in colors I didn’t know they came in until we moved here, not just white or brown, but green, blue, and something kind of peachy. Across Main Street was Renny’s Gas Mart, just a normal gas station and convenience store, which made it kind of unusual for Petersville. And that was it until I opened The Doughnut Stop and Mom opened The Station House.

When Dad and I pulled up in front of the station house that day, the line of customers stretched from the door of The Doughnut Stop, down the porch stairs, and halfway across the parking lot. This wasn’t because of the article. It hadn’t even hit newsstands yet. We’d just gotten an early copy because we were in it. This was normal, and had been since the FYOs.

Back in December, when Josh and I opened The Doughnut Stop, we’d had only one product: prefilled, chocolate cream doughnuts. But by February, we’d branched out to three other flavors: butterscotch, cinnamon, and vanilla. Then in March, I came up with the idea for the FYO: fill-your-own. Now, just a few weeks later, FYO was all anybody ordered.

I get it. Once you’ve shot cream into your own doughnut, you’ll never go back to prefilled. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Come see for yourself.

Selling Tip #31: If you’re not gaining a customer, you’re losing one. The Dummies’ Guide to Making the Sale.

By five, I was completely sold out.

I dropped into the armchair in the old ticket booth we use as our office and closed my eyes. I’d been awake for more than twelve hours, and it wasn’t even dark yet.

Through the wall separating The Doughnut Stop from The Station House, I could hear Dad singing his moan-y French songs as he checked the pantry shelves. Gone was any hope of catching a nap.

I swiveled around to face the ancient computer and pressed the Power button. The machine groaned to life. It had been a gift from Josh’s grandparents when they’d gotten a new one, and it worked fine, so long as you didn’t have any plans for the rest of the day.

We keep our to-do list on a clipboard hanging on the wall next to the computer, and I started going through it:

Order napkins—Josh.

RECYCLED ONES!—W

Have you checked the price for recycled? Too expensive—Jeanine

IS THAT WHAT YOU’LL TELL YOUR CHILDREN WHEN THEY ASK YOU WHY THERE ARE NO MORE TREES?—W

Winnie always writes in capital letters. If there were cartoon bubbles floating over our heads with the words we say, Winnie’s would be in all caps. And they would smell like cinnamon Tic Tacs.