Hi. I’m Albie. Today we went on a quest for the best apple.

Every Saturday, the parking lot fills with tents and tables. Papa calls it a farmers’ market. I say it’s a kingdom where people sell vegetables.

The whole place smells like basil rubbed between fingers.

Nomi marched ahead, grabbed a toothpick from a cheese tray, and raised it like a sword. “I’m Queen of Samples,” she said. Then she pointed at me. “You’re the taste tester.”

Maximum Moo sneezed at a crate of green beans. Half the beans jumped out. Sadie Lou tried to befriend a zucchini. The zucchini stayed quiet.

Papa weighed tomatoes with his serious dinner face.

Nomi tugged me toward the fruit stand. “Quest for the Golden Apple,” she whispered.

We searched the baskets—red, yellow, green—until we found it. Round. Bright. Treasure-red.

The farmer said, “That one’s a dollar fifty.”

I checked my pocket. Two quarters and a dime. Not enough.

My stomach dipped once.

Papa stepped beside me and set two bills on the table. “For the questers,” he said.

We sat on the curb to split the apple. Juice ran down my hand—sweet and sharp.

Last summer, Papa bought me a peach here. He had to open it for me. Today, I opened the apple myself.

Rock blinked once. Slow.

I handed Nomi the last piece.

We sat there, sticky and quiet, watching people walk past.

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