“Ayuh? Glad you like it. Not from around here, are you?”

“No.”

“Out-of-stater?”

“Wisconsin,” I said. Not entirely a lie; my family lived in Milwaukee until I was eleven, when my father got a job teaching English at the University of Southern Maine. I’d been knocking around the state ever since.

“Well, you picked the right time to come,” Anicetti said. “Most of the summer people are gone, and as soon as that happens, prices go down. What you’re drinkin, for example. After Labor Day, a ten-cent root beer only costs a dime.”

The bell over the door jangled; the floorboards creaked. It was a companionable creak. The last time I’d ventured into the Kennebec Fruit, hoping for a roll of Tums (I was disappointed), they had groaned.

A boy who might have been seventeen slipped behind the counter. His dark hair was cropped close, not quite a crewcut. His resemblance to the man who had served me was unmistakable, and I realized that this was my Frank Anicetti. The guy who had lopped the head of foam off my root beer was his father. Frank 2.0 didn’t give me so much as a glance; to him I was just another customer.

“Titus has got the truck up on the lift,” he told his dad. “Says it’ll be ready by five.”

“Well, that’s good,” Anicetti Senior said, and lit a cigarette. For the first time I noticed the marble top of the soda fountain was lined with small ceramic ashtrays. Written on the sides was WINSTON TASTES GOOD LIKE A CIGARETTE SHOULD! He looked back at me and said, “You want a scoop of vanilla in your beer? On the house. We like to treat tourists right, especially when they turn up late.”

“Thanks, but this is fine,” I said, and it was. Any more sweetness and I thought my head would explode. And it was strong—like drinking carbonated espresso.

The kid gave me a grin that was as sweet as the stuff in the frosted mug — there was none of the amused disdain I’d felt emanating from the Elvis wannabe outside. “We read a story in school,” he said, “where the locals eat the tourists if they show up after the season’s over.”