The Summer of Bitter and Sweet: Chapters 21–
28

Fresh chokecherries are poisonous. They
 contain amygdalin. That probably means nothing to you
 unless you’re a chemist or a food scientist, but true-crime TV enthusiasts understand this: as amygdalin 
breaks down, it becomes cyanide. Funny enough, this 
little anecdote is the best way to convince people
 who think they’re tough to eat violet ice creams and
 sherbets. Use this newfound power at your discretion.

“Property assessment?”
“No, that’s tax stuff.”

She’s not as patient as she seems, not as meek.

My mom’s in oil. Surveyor work.

I’ll be cutting it close, not that we have much to sell. But that won’t appease Dom.

I stare at descriptions of parcel sizes and geographic positions, the throbbing in my temples intensifying.

He puts a hand on my knee. Tentative and careful, and then, suddenly, he pulls away.

At the far spectrum of the rainbow, we 
expect the most saturation.

But violets exist along a gradient the same as all others.

This is what I’m thinking during the whole drive home from the bison paddock, giddy sitting next to King in the Subaru, brave enough to lean toward him and not away.

Dom is spending so much time out in the production barn—and fielding personal calls from Leif Winters—that we’ve been eating the dregs of the pantry.

This has always been for your mother to disclose, and I wish she’d done it sooner.

Listen to footsteps above me. Dom pacing. Maurice tapping his foot on the floor, staccato.

He sits there the whole time I’m setting up the tent, in a field we used to keep the horses in back when we had two pretty brown mares. Before we sold them to save on bills. Before this field became tertiary feeding for the cows.

She told me lying about who you are, about your heart and the things that matter to the core of you, that’s a big thing.
The Friendship Center was my family’s idea of the next step, atonement. I volunteered every spare second.

I should have stories to tell, full of pathos and good, strong feeling.

“Don’t you want my license? To run my plates to see if this truck is registered or, like, wanted for heinous crimes?”

I’m being reckless—really reckless—but I can’t muster the energy to stop myself.

The till pops open with a trill exactly like the cash register in the shack.

The till pops open with a trill exactly like the cash register in the shack.

As I pull out into traffic, heading for my original destination, a white SUV in the westbound lanes honks its horn. The driver throws up a hand in a casual wave—at me, at someone else, I don’t know.

Cami’s fifteen. But already, she’s so jaded.

Autumn. Crushed leaves. Proscribed burns in the fields. Farmers wielding drip torches.

Florence is in one of those moods. They’re big and they’re exuberant and it takes me longer than it should to realize, yes, she’s manic.

She has this lilt in her voice.

Do they have crude oil in Italy?

Florence’s sotto voce is all drama. Of course, it’s loud enough for King to hear.

Peter England’s matching patio furniture is all wicker with heavy white cushions.

I’m scouring the map, comparing it to online lists, searching, searching for our win.

“Should we go and find a Denny’s or something? Sit and eat. We can send our concession speech from there?”