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“No,” says Cash the second I’m about to take over the register to offer a discount to Miss Herring, whose huge order just swelled to three digits. “You just spent the last three days fixing the prices. Don’t go cutting them down and sabotaging yourself again.”

“But everyone’s just … h-helping too much.”

“Then let them.”

I stare back at him, unsure whether to be scared or impressed. Then I look over at Miss Herring, who smiles sweetly before Cash finishes ringing her up.

Then the next customer. And the next.

This is how the rest of the day carries on: one smiling face at a time, and a whole lot of musical noise at that register.

I stay open an hour and a half late to accommodate the rush.

My fingers are sore and unusually worn by stubborn thorns and stems. My back aches something fierce.

Then Cash and I are alone again, standing at the door, numb.

“Is this gonna happen tomorrow, too?” asks Cash, blinking.

“I think I’m gonna need to hire you full-time,” I mumble back.

“Okay,” he says, exhausted. Then he looks at me. “Does this mean the shop’s saved? Are you rolling in dough now?”

I tallied it up. Made calculations. “Today was a great day.” I let out a light little sigh. “But … I don’t know if this kind of intensity is sustainable. I’m happy for the rush of business today, don’t get me wrong, but …”

“But it’s just a temporary help.”

“Something like that,” I confirm.

“You still need big guns,” he says.

I slowly nod. “I still need big guns.”

“Don’t sweat it, Mr. C. You’ll get your big guns. Promise.” Cash slaps me on the back with startling strength. “We’ll get you the whole dang arsenal.”

I smile back tiredly.

That night, I fall asleep so fast, I don’t even remember getting home, showering, eating, or having an hour-long phone call with Lance, who calls on the pretense of seeing how I’m doing, only to then complain for an hour about how demanding Cassie can be.

In the morning, I’m woken by a rumbling car engine.

No way.

I fall off the couch and rush to the kitchen window, wiping my eyes frantically.

My stomach sinks.

Moving truck. Unfamiliar blue sedan in the driveway. Woman with bushy brown hair kindly giving instructions to three bearded men by the truck. Two strapping young guys carry a couch up the steps of the porch, front door wide open.

It’s official.

I have real new neighbors now.

“Nicole Berry,” she says warmly, greeting me later.

Yes, of course I go over and say hi. Why wouldn’t I? I’m not an animal.

But this time, I go without a welcome basket.