“Joy Bombs,” said Joy. She tilted her chin up in a small display of pride and ownership.

“Joy Bombs,” she said into the phone. “You know it?”

“He knows it,” said Joy. “He definitely knows it.” Out the window she saw Maggie pull up on her bike. Reinforcements, thank goodness. She watched as Maggie steered the bike into the bike rack and wound the lock carefully around it, locking not just the tire but the body of the bike to the stand, the way Joy had shown her. Good girl. During the winter they wouldn’t dream of locking anything on Block Island, but in the summer you just never knew.

“Cute title,” Shelly Salazar said, when she was off the phone. “Joy Bombs.”

“It’s not a title,” said Joy. “It’s a name. Aren’t titles just for books?”

“Or movies,” said Shelly Salazar. “Or magazine articles.”

“Not for bakeries, though.”

“A bakery,” repeated Shelly. “You guys sell gluten-free chocolate chip cookies?” She turned to scrutinize the display cases.

“No,” said Joy. “We sell just one thing. Whoopie pies. Here, try one.” She put a classic chocolate cream on a plate and held it out over the counter. Normally she cut samples into small pieces but she gave Shelly a whole one.

Shelly Salazar reared back like a spooked horse. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said. “Gluten.”

“Allergy, or preference?” That was something you had to ask, in case ingredients got mixed.

Shelly blinked at Joy and said, “Both.”

Joy wanted to say, You have to pick one, but she held herself back.

Joy hadn’t heard Maggie come in. Maggie liked to use the back door, the one that led into the kitchen, because she said it made her feel more legit. Suddenly she was there, and she was saying, “We have gluten-free whoopie pies,” and when Joy turned around she saw that Maggie had already donned an apron and plastered on her best customer-service smile. Her purple streak was pulled back into a ponytail, along with the rest of her hair. Her T-shirt said My Other T-Shirt Is a Ferrari. She looked fresh and wholesome, like a Swedish milkmaid.

Shelly Salazar nodded and said, “Do you have gluten-free sugar-free dairy-free?” Her expression was optimistic, as though she actually expected that they might have something so useless and ridiculous in a bakery.

“Absolutely not,” said Joy, under her breath.

“No,” said Maggie. “I’m sorry, we don’t. Maybe try, uh—the farmers’ market? I can give you directions.” She met Shelly’s gaze square on, and she smiled.

Shelly handed the whoopie pie back to Joy and for a split second she looked legitimately disappointed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It looks delicious. I wish I could, I really do.”

Then the door opened: Anthony. He was wearing faded jeans and a plain gray T-shirt that looked exactly like the T-shirt he’d been wearing that day at Poor People’s Pub and really almost all the other days of the summer. Joy could feel a faint blush rise to her cheeks. All of Anthony’s T-shirts were the kind of T-shirt that tried to pretend they were from Target or Olympia Sports but really cost ninety-five dollars and were made from silk spun by a thousand exotic caterpillars. That was why they were such a butter-soft place to lay one’s head.