Chapter 2: Stranger in Nana’s Town

2

Following Nana’s address, I take a Greyhound for an entire day.

The bus reeked of old fries and spilled coffee. Outside, endless fields rolled by, broken only by rusted silos and yard signs for local politicians. I kill time re-listening to the Nana call and scrolling through her order history, memorizing every detail.

After what feels like forever, I finally arrive in a small Ohio town.

The bus station is just a bench under a faded Pepsi sign. The air smells like wood smoke and damp earth. My phone barely has a bar of service.

The place is remote, and I lose my bearings as soon as I hit the edge of town.

Roads snake between half-empty houses and wild, overgrown lawns. GPS might as well be a brick.

Under a big old maple at the town entrance, a group of men are squatting together, smoking.

Their pickup’s got peeling paint and a dented fender. They size me up the way small towns always eye strangers—wary, curious.

I steel myself and head over, every step crunching gravel. My city shoes feel ridiculous out here. I paste on my friendliest smile.

"Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to Nana’s house?"

I keep it light. No need to stir up trouble in someone else’s backyard.

They check me up and down, saying nothing.

The silence is thick. For a second, I think about bailing.

I pull out a pack of Marlboros—premium smokes—and offer them around.

I’d heard in towns like this, a pack of Marlboros was better than a handshake.

At the sight of the cigarettes, they finally crack a smile.

One tips his John Deere cap. "Well, look at that. A city boy with taste," he jokes. The tension breaks a little.

An older man eyes me. "Young man, what business you got with Nana?"

His accent is thick and slow. There’s curiosity, but a wall behind it, too.

I play it safe. Outsiders don’t last if they stir up trouble. "Just have something I’d like to discuss with her."

I keep my gaze low, not trying to look tough.

The youngest guy grins, showing off a row of crooked yellow teeth. He’s maybe twenty, red hair wild and eyes sharp.

One wore a John Deere cap, another had a faded Harley tattoo on his forearm.

"Come on, I’ll take you to Nana."

His tone is easy, but there’s something sly in his eyes. I follow—what choice do I have?

He leads me into town. Away from the others, he stops suddenly, blocking my way.

The houses sit far apart, porches sagging, wind chimes jangling in the breeze. He blocks my path, grinning.

"You chasing down Nana for money too?" He leans in, breath sour and thick with cheap beer.

I don’t answer, staying just out of arm’s reach.

He doesn’t care. He just lights a cigarette, enjoying the moment.

He takes a drag and sighs, "Premium cigarettes really do hit different."

I get the hint and hand him the rest of my pack, plus a half-used one. My wallet’s already thin, but I peel off two hundred like it’s burning a hole in my hand.

He pockets the smokes, eyes lighting up. Nothing like a bribe to grease the wheels.

He flicks ash onto the dirt and gives me a look.

He mutters, "Name’s Jimmy, but folks call me Red—on account of the hair, not the temper. You chasing down Nana for money too? Someone else tried that last week."

He talks fast, words tumbling out. There’s pride in being a local expert, even if it’s just about Nana’s scams.

"She’s cussed out half the county. Last guy who tried to collect left looking like he’d seen a ghost."

He smirks, like he’s sure I’ll fail, too.

I square my shoulders, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"So why are you helping me, Red?"

He shrugs. "Nothing better to do. I leased out all my land—might as well watch the drama."

He stretches, back popping. Not in a hurry to get anywhere.

"But if I help, I should get something for my trouble, right?"

His hand’s out, palm up. Pay to play.

I hesitate, but hand over two hundred bucks. It hurts, but I need the help.

Red pockets it, grinning wider. "Let’s go."

He folds the bills and tucks them in his boot, like it’s not his first time.

Talking to Red, I feel a little more sure of myself. Not everyone’s on Nana’s side. Money talks, and out here, it shouts.

I glance at the houses—old trucks in driveways, kids’ toys in yards. In a place like this, people notice when someone’s luck changes.

"Is Nana’s house far?"

I check my watch, sweat prickling in the sticky Ohio air.

Red points ahead. "Just up yonder."

He gestures with his cigarette, smoke curling around his fingers.

"Does Nana have land?"

I try to sound casual, but he sizes me up.

Red raises his brows. "You can tell, huh? This year, Nana stopped leasing her land and built a greenhouse for strawberries. No idea where she got the cash."

He snorts. "Probably scammed it off folks like you."

Halfway there, I stop him. "Wait. Let’s not go to her house yet."

I drop my voice. "I want to see what she’s doing with all those seedlings."

Red’s surprised, but his eyes light up. "Alright, you’re a sly one."

He leads me through a maze of paths to a clearing with plastic greenhouses.

Humidity slapped me in the face the second I ducked inside. The air was thick with the scent of fresh earth and ripening berries. Somewhere nearby, a rooster crows. This is real farming country.

Red points. "That’s it. Nana comes every day—she treasures it."

The greenhouse is bigger than I pictured, patched with duct tape but solid. A faded sign reads "Nana’s Berries."

Hearing she’s a daily visitor, I frown. That complicates things. If she’s here, I might not get a shot to look inside.

Red laughs and pats my shoulder. His hand is rough, but his laugh takes the edge off.

"Don’t worry. She’s gone home for lunch. Always leaves at noon sharp."

Relieved, I creep up to the greenhouse, lift the plastic, and peek inside.

I crouch low, heart thumping. The inside is a jungle—humid, green, glasses fogging.

Inside, rows of strawberry plants are thriving—some already bearing fruit.

Bright red berries poke out from thick green leaves. It’s a picture of success—the kind you brag about online.

What really gets me is in the corner: packages from my shop.

My logo is right there, bold as day. She didn’t even bother hiding it.

"Damn it, those are my seedlings," I mutter, jaw tight.

I snap a photo, making sure to catch the shipping label. My hands shake with anger—and maybe, a little vindication.

Red comes over. "Those really yours?"

He actually looks surprised. For a moment, we’re on the same team.

I show him Nana’s purchase records on my phone. A whole list, each order bigger than the last.

"She’s bought so many times, always refunding and claiming there’s a problem."

I zoom in on a refund receipt. Red whistles.

"What problem? The strawberries are growing fine."

He gestures at the fat, healthy plants. "Hell, she could win a ribbon at the county fair with these."

Red shakes his head. "Wow, Nana really has no shame. She owes you this much?"

I say coldly, "That’s not all. Because of her refunds, the platform tanked my shop rating. I’ve lost over ten thousand dollars."

Red whistles low, real sympathy in his eyes. "Man, that’s rough." For a second, I see a flicker of anger in him—not just for me, but for the principle of it.