The bell above the door of the "Quick-Stop" mini-mart didn't so much jingle as it gasped, a weak, metallic sigh that announced another customer. Amanda Hustley didn't look up from the crossword puzzle book she kept under the counter. She was stuck on 17-down. Seven letters: "A profound sense of weariness." Ennui was too short. Lassitude was too long.
"Come on," she muttered, tapping the cheap biro against the formica.
"Trouble with the puzzle, Amanda?"
Mr. Feng's voice was calm, a low rumble from his perpetual post on the stool behind the counter. He was a still point in the turning world of the Quick-Stop, watching the comings and goings over the top of his local newspaper, the Willow Creek Sentinel.
"The English language is failing me, Mr. Feng," she said, finally looking up. "It's a national tragedy."
He offered one of his rare, slight smiles. "The language is fine. Perhaps the mind is tired."
"A distinct possibility," she agreed.
The customer, old Mr. Peterson, was taking his sweet time deciding between two nearly identical brands of beef jerky. He held them up, squinting at the nutritional information as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"The one on the left's got less sodium, Pete," Amanda called out. "Doctor Granger's orders, right?"
Mr. Peterson grunted. "Sodium, schmodium. When you get to my age, a little salt is the least of your worries." He tossed the higher-sodium bag onto the counter along with his usual quart of milk and a copy of the Sentinel. "Might as well enjoy the taste of something before I kick the bucket."
"You'll outlive us all, Pete," Amanda said, ringing him up. "That'll be eleven-eighty."
"At these prices, I'll have to," he chuckled, counting out exact change from a worn leather coin purse. He leaned in conspiratorially. "You hear about the Henderson boy? Got his truck stuck out near the old mill pond last night. Sheriff had to pull him out. His daddy's gonna tarnish his hide."
Amanda smiled. This was the real currency of the Quick-Stop: information. "I had not heard that. I'm sure the Sentinel will be all over it."
"Front page news," Mr. Feng intoned without looking up from his paper.
The door gasped open again, letting in a blast of cool, damp air and Sam Gunderson. He smelled of the ocean, diesel fuel, and the particular brand of exhaustion that came from a pre-dawn start and a mediocre catch. He nodded a general greeting to the room and made a beeline for the coffee station, pouring a large black coffee into a styrofoam cup.
"Morning, Sam," Amanda said.
"Amanda," he grunted, snapping a lid onto his cup. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes.
"How's the water out there?" Mr. Peterson asked.
"Wet. Cold." Sam dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter. "The crabs are on strike. Or they've all moved to California. Keep the change." He was out the door before anyone could reply, the old door gasping shut behind him.
"Young people," Mr. Peterson said, shaking his head. "No patience. We'd be out for three days in a squall and come back smiling. He's out for five hours and looks like his dog died."
"It's a different world, Pete," Amanda said, wiping down the counter where Sam's money had left a faint wet ring.
"That it is." He pocketed his change. "You have a good one, Amanda. Feng."
The morning passed in a slow, predictable rhythm. The construction workers from the repaving project on Route 101 came in for their coffee and energy drinks. A young mother, Lena Flores, came in with her toddler in a stroller, looking harried as she bought diapers and a single, sad-looking banana.
"Rough morning?" Amanda asked as she rang her up.
"You could say that," Lena said with a tired smile. "Jasper decided three a.m. was the perfect time to practice his opera singing." Jasper, Amanda knew, was their cat. "And the daycare called. Mia has a bit of a fever. Just one of those days."
"I hope she feels better," Amanda said sincerely.
After the lunch rush—a term used very loosely at the Quick-Stop, meaning two fishermen and a UPS driver—Brenda Wu from The Daily Grind café across the street bustled in, a whirlwind of floral print and kinetic energy.
"Amanda, honey, I need a gallon of your cheapest whole milk. Feng, you're a criminal for what you charge for this." She winked at Amanda to show she was kidding. Mostly.
"It's the cost of convenience, Brenda," Mr. Feng said, not looking up.
"It's the cost of highway robbery," Brenda shot back cheerfully. She turned her attention to Amanda. "Don't you have a college degree? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, running a non-profit or solving the climate crisis?"
It was a familiar, well-meaning jab. It still managed to find its mark. "The climate crisis was booked solid, Brenda. They're putting me on the waitlist. In the meantime, I'm mastering the delicate art of the scratch-off ticket transaction."
Brenda laughed, a loud, unselfconscious sound that filled the small store. "Well, this town's lucky to have you. Even if you are slumming it with this tycoon." She jerked a thumb at Mr. Feng. "You coming to the council meeting tonight? They're voting on the lighthouse. Gonna be a heck of a show."
"Wouldn't miss it," Amanda said. It was true. In a town with no movie theater, a city council meeting was the best drama in town.
After Brenda left with her overpriced milk, the afternoon settled into a deep, profound quiet. Amanda restocked the cooler with sodas, the glass bottles clinking together like wind chimes. She wiped down the hot dog roller, even though it didn't need it. She watched the sunlight move across the floor.
At five o'clock, her shift ended. She took off the red vest with the Quick-Stop logo, hanging it on a hook in the small back room that smelled of stale mop water and old cardboard. She said goodbye to Mr. Feng, who nodded his goodbye.
Stepping outside was like entering a different world. The air was clean and sharp with the scent of salt and coming rain. She took a deep breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. Main Street was quiet now. She could hear the distant, low moan of a freighter out in the bay.
She walked down the sidewalk, past the library with its warm, inviting light, past the shuttered movie theater, its marquee still advertising a film from five years ago. She wasn't going home yet. She had one more errand.
She turned into Ocean Avenue Automotive, a garage that was little more than a large, greasy shed. The smell of gasoline and rubber was overwhelming.
Ray, the owner, was under the hood of Sheriff Miller's cruiser. His voice echoed from the engine block. "...gonna need a new alternator, Mike. This one's toast. I can have it for you by Thursday."
"Thursday? Ray, what am I supposed to use for a patrol car until then?" Sheriff Miller's voice was weary.
"Guess you'll have to walk the beat. Good for the cardio." Ray emerged, wiping his hands on an already filthy rag. He spotted Amanda. "Hey, kid. Your mom's car is all set. Just the oil change and tire rotation. I topped up the wiper fluid."
"You're a saint, Ray."
"Tell that to my ex-wife. Keys are in it."
Amanda fished the envelope of cash her mother had given her out of her backpack and handed it over. Ray didn't count it. Everyone in town knew Carol Hustley was good for it.
She got into her mom's old, but impeccably maintained, sedan and drove the five blocks home. The house was a pale blue bungalow with a porch her father had built and her mother's hydrangeas, a shocking, impossible blue, bursting from the garden.
She found her mother, Carol, in the kitchen, humming along to a classic rock station on the small countertop radio. The room was filled with the rich, comforting smell of simmering beef stew.
"The chariot has been returned, serviced and detailed," Amanda announced, dropping the keys in a ceramic bowl by the door.
"My hero," Carol said, not turning from the stove. She was a small, wiry woman who moved a little slower since the hip surgery, but with no less purpose. "How was the empire of Mr. Feng?"
"We made millions. I thwarted a attempted shoplifting of a pack of gum. It was a high-stakes day." Amanda grabbed a apple from the fruit bowl. "Saw Sam. He looked tired."
"The sea's been stingy," Carol said, a familiar refrain. "His father's probably riding him hard about it. Some things never change." She finally turned, her face softening. "You okay, honey? You seem… quiet."
Amanda shrugged, taking a bite of the apple. It was crisp and sweet. "Just thinking about that lighthouse meeting tonight. The great debate."
Carol rolled her eyes. "Oh, lord. Brenda's already called me twice about it. She's got a petition. I told her I'd sign it if she stopped calling me during my stories."
They ate stew at the small Formica table in the kitchen, talking about nothing in particular. The neighbor's new roof. The high school football team's chances this year. The price of gas. It was the liturgy of small-town life, familiar and comforting.
After dinner, Amanda changed out of her clothes, which smelled faintly of the Quick-Stop, and put on a clean sweater and jeans. A small act of reclamation.
The town hall meeting was at seven. They had time. Amanda went out onto the porch and sat on the steps, looking out at the street. The air was cool. Lights were coming on in the houses around her. She could hear someone laughing down the street, the sound carrying clearly in the quiet evening.
Everything was normal. Perfectly, utterly normal. It was boring. It was frustrating. It was home.
She pulled out her phone. There was a text from her friend Chloe in Seattle: Hey! How was the day of high finance?
Amanda smiled and typed back: Thrilling. I prevented a jerky-based crisis. You?
In a meeting that could have been an email, Chloe replied instantly. I miss the simple life.
No, you don't, Amanda typed.
No, I don't, Chloe agreed. But I miss you. Call me later?
After the council meeting.
The horror! Chloe replied. Okay. Live tweet it for me. Love you.
Amanda put her phone away. She looked up at the sky, where the first few stars were beginning to appear. She could hear the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against the bluffs, a sound so constant it was the town's own heartbeat. A porch light flicked on next door. From down the street came the faint, happy shriek of a child being called inside for the night.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool, damp air. It smelled of pine needles, salt, and the rich earth of her mother's garden.
Everything was normal. Perfectly, utterly normal. It was boring. It was frustrating. It was home.