Emboldened, and hoping he didn’t sound bitter, Ephraim persisted. “Yeah, but everyone has family and memories, there’s something else here”
“ ’Cuz of Buttercup Street,” Ephraim finished, and then felt a bit bad, because he knew he sounded mocking.
He wasn’t trying to mock. Memories, he knew well, were hard currency, valuable as cash.
She sat down, her face colored by nostalgia. “I mean, Shmuel Chaim was the one who got us to pick all those berries, our hands were scratched like you wouldn’t believe. My fingers were the color of raspberries until Succos. He convinced us we would sell them at the farmers’ market in Spring Glen and make enough money for us all to get new bikes.”
Ephraim arranged his face to look especially interested, even though he knew the story.
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