Elias froze. "Tart cherries. Fresh, if you have them. Frozen or jarred if you don't."

"We have Bings," they’d say. "Big, sweet, dark red Bings."

"Not the same," Elias would mutter, adjusted his glasses. He wasn't looking for a snack. He was looking for the sharp, electric tang of a Montmorency—the true tart cherry. His grandmother’s pie recipe didn't ask for "sweet." It demanded a flavor that made your jaw hinge ache.

Marty, a man who looked like he was carved out of an old apple tree, stepped into the light. "Fresh season is blink-and-you-miss-it, kid. Usually July, mostly up in Michigan or Utah. You're a few months off for the orchards." Elias deflated. "I need them for tonight."