It was buried in a spreadsheet Trevor had asked me to tidy up. A tab called Closures – Draft.

Thirty Lakeshore stores. All in small towns in Indiana, Illinois, Michigan and Ohio. All marked Close by end of year.

Number seventeen was Carver Falls.

I sat at my photocopier desk and stared at it.

If the Lakeshore on Main Street closed, the nearest grocery store would be forty minutes away. Half the people in Carver Falls were over sixty-five. A lot of them didn't drive anymore.

And the Corner Cup only survived because people popped in for coffee and a cinnamon roll on their way to do their grocery shopping.

No grocery store meant no Main Street. No Main Street meant no Corner Cup.

The reason on the spreadsheet was one word.

Underperforming.

I looked at the numbers. The rural stores were losing money. That much was true.

But something about the numbers felt wrong. I'd spent eighteen years watching that store from Grandma's café window. I knew how busy it was in the mornings.

The numbers didn't match what I'd seen.

So that night, after everyone went home, I stayed late and started digging.