But I don’t want it for any price, Jane thought as she reached into her bag. “Here, why don’t we compromise? Here’s twelve.” There had to be someone she could give it to.

The beer can vest rattled as the woman leaned forward in her webbed chair and snatched the bills out of Jane’s hand. “Took me two days to make that. Twelve dollars! Pffft.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open. Had the woman actually spit at her? If not, it was near enough. And she was supposed to stand here and take it! “Well if twelve dollars is such an insult,” she said, “and it’s so unbearable to part with the thing, why sell it at all? Why not just have it framed and donate it to a museum?”

People at the other booths were starting to stare at her, all the farmers and bakers in their simple jeans and work shirts, staring at her in her summer clothes and city sandals, making her feel like the world’s oldest adolescent. Caroline was finalizing her purchase and making frantic hand signals to her which Jane couldn’t read. She should simply leave the hideous item here on the table, but that would probably cause a riot. She stuffed the bottle cover into her bag—what a practical design, and undoubtedly extra pretty when covered with ketchup—and walked away, leaving the old woman clicking her needles, and, for all she knew, laughing and spitting at her. This should count as two good deeds done today. Or six.

Caroline rushed over. She took Jane by the arm and led her down the aisle of tables and out from under the canopy into the unseasonably hot sun. It had been years since Jane had spent any significant time with Caroline, and in the interval, she seemed to have grown more beautiful. Or not beautiful exactly, but lovely. Everything about her was fresh and fair and lovely—the long lean lines of her body, her soft corn silk hair, her smooth pink skin. She had on a lemon yellow dress that floated around her slim body. She even smelled lemony, despite her cigarettes.

“I took you at your word about supporting these people,” Jane said, “but it nearly cost me my life.”

They walked across the bumpy, browning field, toward the lot where they’d left the car. Caroline looked over her shoulder, apparently to make sure no one was tailing them, listening in on their conversation. “I try to avoid that woman,” she said. “She and her husband are big NRA supporters and they’ve been connected to the local militia. There was even talk they were involved in a bomb threat at the State House in Concord last year.”

“Oh, shit.”