By eleven o'clock, Maisie Parker had lowered the price of her bicycle three times.
She began at forty dollars because forty sounded like enough to buy groceries without looking like she had stolen the bike. Then thirty seemed more likely to make somebody stop. Now the cardboard sign hanging from the handlebars said TWENTY-FIVE, with the old numbers crossed out so hard the marker had torn through the top layer.
The bicycle was pink.
Not a shy pink, not the pale color of a baby's blanket, but the bright, unreasonable pink of something a twelve-year-old girl had once believed would make every street in town belong to her.
There was a white basket on the front. One corner had cracked, and Maisie had repaired it with three yellow zip ties. A silver bell sat beside the left grip. The seat had a little split underneath, where nobody could see it unless they were looking for a reason to pay less.
She had washed it before leaving home.
That seemed important now.
If someone bought it, they should know it had been loved.
Across Bellwether's town square, the clock above the courthouse struck the hour. A delivery truck backed toward the bakery. Two women carrying paper cups passed Maisie without slowing. A boy from her school went by with his father, saw her sign, and looked away quickly enough to make her feel worse than if he had laughed.
Under the oak tree, an old man sat on the bench with a brown envelope resting across his knees.
He had been there when she arrived.
He wore a dark coat too good for a Saturday morning in a town where people considered clean jeans formal. His hair was gray at the temples. His right shoe had a small patch of mud near the heel, as if he had stepped somewhere without noticing what the ground was doing.
Maisie had decided not to ask him.
Old men on benches sometimes liked to talk for a long time. She needed someone who wanted a bicycle.
At home, her mother had said she wasn't hungry.
That was what finally made Maisie lower the price again.
Nora Parker could be hungry at seven, nine, and midnight when there was enough food. When there wasn't, she developed a remarkable interest in tea.
Maisie knew all her mother's tricks now.
The extra water in the soup. The toast cut into small triangles so a plate looked busy. The way she claimed the ends of bread were her favorite, then gave Maisie both middle slices and pretended not to notice the cupboard afterward.
That morning, Nora had put the last egg on Maisie's plate.
“Not in the mood,” she said, smiling from the kitchen chair.
She had gone pale climbing the stairs the night before. She had sat halfway up and pretended to examine a loose thread on her sleeve until her breathing settled.
Maisie ate half the egg and said she was full.
Her mother frowned.
They had become two people lying politely over breakfast.
At eleven seventeen, a man in a baseball cap stopped beside the bike.
“Ten,” he said.
Maisie stood straighter.
“It's twenty-five.”
“I can see the sign.”
“The tires are good.”
He squeezed the rear one, though he did it where it would tell him almost nothing.
“Basket's busted.”
“It still holds things.”
“Ten dollars. Cash.”
She thought of chicken soup, apples, the soft bread her mother liked. She had made a list in her pocket, with prices guessed from the last trip to the grocery store. She had left off strawberries because thinking about them made the list seem childish.
“Twenty,” she said.
The man shrugged and walked away.
Maisie stared after him.
She wished he had looked cruel. Cruel people should be easier to recognize. Instead he looked like anybody's uncle, a man who might fix a porch step or know which tomatoes were good.
“Don't sell it to him for ten.”
The voice came from beneath the oak.
Maisie turned.
The man with the envelope was watching the bicycle, not her.
“I wasn't going to.”
“Good.”
He looked back down at the envelope, apparently finished.
That annoyed her enough to make her speak.
“Are you buying it?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn't really matter what you think.”
He considered that.
“No,” he said. “I suppose it doesn't.”
She had expected him to be offended. His agreement left her nowhere useful to put her temper.