Before I obey, I glance at her display case. There are leftover pastries from yesterday inside, and my eyes scan through what she has to offer. “You’ve got oatmeal butterscotch.” She smiles, and taps the chalkboard display behind her. I’m confused for a moment. It just reads: OL’ BUTTERSCOTCH COOKIES. . .$2.25. “They’re still your favorite, right?” I look at the display again. OL’ BUTTERSCOTCH. OL. Owen Larabee. Or maybe just ol’ as in “old” as in why am I trying to make a thing out of cookies?
