It took me two weeks of evenings to find it.

The rural stores didn't lose money because nobody shopped there. They lost money because of the trucks.

Lakeshore's delivery trucks drove out from big warehouses near the cities. The routes were planned so the city stores got their deliveries first, at five in the morning. The small-town stores came last, at the end of the route.

Carver Falls got its fresh fruit and vegetables at eleven forty-five a.m.

But in a small town, people shop early. Farmers, factory workers, retired people. By the time the fresh food arrived, most of the morning customers had already been in, found empty shelves, and left. Then the food sat there all afternoon and half of it went bad.

The stores weren't failing. The trucks were just arriving at the wrong time.

I needed to prove it.

So that weekend, I drove three hours home to Carver Falls. At five o'clock on Saturday morning, I sat in the window of the Corner Cup with a notebook and a pot of coffee, counting every customer who walked into the Lakeshore across the street.

Grandma Dot sat beside me in her apron, counting too.

“A hundred and twelve before nine o'clock,” she said, when we compared notes. “And forty of them came out with nothing but bread and milk. Because there was nothing else.”