It seemed mere moments had passed before sunshine was beaming into Bicycle’s face through the bedroom’s window. She heard familiar off-key singing coming from another part of the house. “Oh! Susanna, Oh don’t you cry for me, for I come from Alabamy with a banjer on my knee—hee!”

“Griffin!” Bicycle shouted. She threw off the covers and ran to the kitchen. There stood Jeremiah in a flour-covered apron and polka-dotted oven mitts, peering into a pot of oil, singing in a gravelly voice. “The sun so hot, I froze to death, Susanna, don’t you cry…Well!” He straightened up, grinning a grin filled with crooked but strong teeth. “Up already, eh? Just in time to try a hot batch of peach!” He used a metal net to scoop some little pastries from the pot and added them to a pile on a towel-lined cooling rack.

Bicycle’s shoulders drooped and she half sat, half fell onto a chair. Jeremiah ambled over and put down a pocket of crispy dough on a plate in front of her. “Dig right in. Put some warm pie in that mouth, and it won’t look so unhappy,” he said.

Why do so many people I meet want to feed me? Bicycle wondered, thinking of the Cookie Lady and Chef Marie as well as the snack-giving strangers she’d met. Then her stomach gurgled as if to remind her how terrific it was that so many people wanted to feed her. Then it gurgled a little louder as if to remind her not to be impolite, so she picked up the pie pocket and bit into it. Warm peach and cinnamon flavors filled her mouth, and her stomach burbled in approval. She took another big bite and finished the pie in no time flat.

“Have another. As many as you like,” recommended Jeremiah, plunking down another plate with four more fried pies on it.

Bicycle reached out and picked up two more, eating them with one in each hand.

Jeremiah’s smile wrinkled his face so much his eyes nearly disappeared. “Yes, ma’am, my pies can cure what ails you. They’re all I eat, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I got no complaints.”

Bicycle realized that she was enjoying herself and felt ashamed. Griffin’s gone, and all you can do is eat pies? You’re a rotten person.

Jeremiah watched her face fall back into despair, and sat down at the table with her. “Now, it’s plain as day that you’re mighty upset. Maybe we better start from the start. I told you how those pigs got in that street yesterday—now can you can tell me how you got in that street in front of them?”

Bicycle said, “It’s a long story, too, but I’ll tell you as much as I can.” She thought for a minute about where to begin, and decided she had better start from the start, as Jeremiah had suggested. “The day I was left at the monastery, the front door was missing…”

She talked through the whole morning, Jeremiah handing her fried pie after fried pie, listening to every word. She told him about the places she’d been before getting to Missouri: Washington, D.C.; Virginia; Kentucky; and Illinois. She told him about Griffin and her promise to return him to his hometown and his friend’s fried-pie shop. Jeremiah’s gray eyebrows raised way up when she related that part of the story, but he kept listening without comment.

And when she finished with the Parade of Pigs, she remembered that some of the last words she’d said to Griffin were to disagree with him. “And I said, ‘Why should I worry about pigs?’ Usually I’m a good listener, but I didn’t listen to him until it was too late. Then he saved me, but I let him get run over eight hundred and thirty-eight times.” She felt tears welling up again. “So I’ve lost my bike and Griffin, too.”

“Losin’ two friends in one go—that’s tough on toppa tough,” Jeremiah agreed.

Bicycle looked at him. Griffin was my friend. I made a friend. She sat in silence, overwhelmed. After a few minutes, she shook her head like she was waking up. “Mister Jeremiah, I can’t give up on Griffin. Is there a doctor in town? No, wait—some kind of a bike mechanic?” she asked. Maybe Griffin isn’t totally gone, she thought. He was a ghost, after all. Maybe he’s just in some passed-out ghostly state.

Jeremiah looked uncomfortable. He stood up and turned away. “Mebbe. I don’t rightly know,” he said gruffly. He busied himself cleaning up the dishes. After a few minutes of dish splashing and soapsuds, he turned back around. “I know who can help you, dagnabbit,” he said, “but I don’t know that she will. One lady fixes bikes here in Green Marsh, and that’s Estrella Marquez Montgomery.” He spat out the name. “But I ain’t talking to her since it was her great-grandpa who ran those pigs all over my great-grandpa’s dreams. We don’t have nothin’ to do with each other.” He looked mad, and then lifted his shoulders in apology. “But it wouldn’t be right to pretend like I don’t know where you need to go. A word of warning: When we get there, don’t tell Estrella that you’re trying to revive a ghost who was a friend of Joe Branch’s. She’s mean as those pigs her family raises, so that probably wouldn’t help you at all.” He started toward the front door. “I’ll pull the van around while you get your bike, and we’ll head over there.”

Bicycle ran to pick up the blanket with the remains of Clunk wrapped inside.

Bicycle and Jeremiah trundled down the street in a white bakery van labeled PARADISE PIES on the outside. The van moved as slowly as its driver, and Bicycle had to jiggle her legs up and down to defuse her impatience. After a while, Jeremiah turned left at a sign that said MARQUEZ PIGS and drove up a tree-lined driveway to a fine house with a large detached garage. He turned off the engine and said, “You run in alone and see if she’s there. Tell her what you need. Be better if she don’t see you with me.”

But before Bicycle could hop out of the van, a tiny, wrinkled lady came around the corner of the house, hollering at the top of her lungs.

“You git that durn pie truck out of my driveway, Jeremiah Branch! You tryin’ to poison an old lady with those awful fried pies? I ain’t fallin’ for it. You git, now!” She came up to the side of the truck and starting kicking one of the tires with her tiny foot. “Git, I say!”

Jeremiah climbed out of the front seat as fast as he could, which wasn’t very. “You leave off kickin’ my truck, Estrella, afore you break somethin’! I ain’t here to give you no pies! You ain’t never welcome to eat a single pie I fry—that’s the honest truth!”

Estrella redoubled her tire-kicking efforts. “Jealous of my pigs, you are. I know you’re up to something!”

Jeremiah yelled back, “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for your pigs and the mess they make! Jealous? Ha! I’d like to see the day!”

Bicycle jumped out of the van and dashed around to open its rear double doors and pull out the blanket-wrapped bundle. She interrupted the squabble with one of the Sacred Eight Words: “Help!”

It did the trick. Jeremiah and Estrella stopped arguing as Bicycle lugged the bundle over to them. Jeremiah looked sheepish, but Estrella looked interested.

“Well, youngster, what have you got there? Appears to be a bike in trouble,” she said. The blanket had fallen partially open, and Estrella was peering down at a piece of Clunk’s frame.

Bicycle looked Estrella in the eyes. They were close to the same height, even though Estrella seemed to be a hundred years older. “It is. It’s in a lot of trouble. Please,” she said. “Please help me, help my bike.”

Estrella smiled a puckered smile at Bicycle. She may have had fewer wrinkles than Jeremiah, but not by much. She touched Bicycle’s cheek with a soft hand and said, “Bring it in the shop, honey, and I’ll take a peek. Sometimes things look worse than they are.” She glared at Jeremiah. “You,” she warned, “stay out here and keep your poison pies with you.”

Jeremiah glared back, but he saw Bicycle’s pleading face and kept his mouth shut.

Bicycle followed Estrella into the garage and laid the blanket on a workbench to unwrap Clunk. Estrella put on a helmet with a spotlight on the top and magnifying goggles over her eyes. “Hmmmm,” she hummed, examining the frame from a distance, and then up close. “Hmmmm.” She plinked one spoke like she was playing a guitar string, then plinked another.

“Can you do something? Anything?” Bicycle said. “My friend might be trapped in there, and I need to know if he’s still alive…well, not alive, because he’s a ghost, but at least if he’s awake. Oh, please, say you can help!”

Estrella glanced at her. “Think there’s a ghost in your bike? You’ve been eatin’ Jeremiah’s pies, ain’t you? They’ll make you daft like that old man—you better watch out.”

Bicycle shook her head, and then nodded. “No—well, yes, I had some fried pies, but I’m telling you the truth. I had a ghost haunting my bike frame because he needed to get to Green Marsh from a Civil War battlefield since this was his home. I need to know if he’s still in there.”

Estrella turned the spotlight on Bicycle’s face and peered into her eyes with the magnifying glasses. “Hmmmm.” A long moment passed. “All right, you’re telling me the truth. But I mean it—don’t have any more fried pies; they’ll be the death of you.” She turned back to the bike. “So I need to see if I can fix up this here bike and also wake up a ghost who may or may not still be in here, that right?”

“That’s right. Can you do it?” Bicycle twisted her hands behind her back.

Estrella picked up a tiny wrench and leaned close to Clunk’s frame. She tapped it lightly with the wrench and listened to the clank. She squeezed a tire. Then she sniffed at the bike, and sniffed again. “Run over by pigs, was it?” she asked. “Oh my, was this the bike that got caught in the Parade of Pigs? That’s why we always clear the streets beforehand. Those pigs of mine sure can run, but they have a heck of a time knowing when to stop.” She set her mouth in a hard line. “Child, if anyone in the world can help you, it’s me—it’s the least I can do, seeing as how it was my company, Marquez Pigs, that caused this damage to your bike. Whoops, almost overlooked my manners. I’m Estrella Marquez Montgomery, owner of Marquez Pigs and the best bike mechanic in town. And you are…?”

“I’m Bicycle.”

“There’s a name I won’t soon forget. You leave this to me, and we’ll see what’s what.” She was all business now, and waved an impatient hand. “You go on and scat. I can’t work with you staring moony-eyed at me. Come back around dinnertime, and like I said, we’ll see what’s what.” She turned to the bike.

Bicycle started to back out of the garage, past a few other bikes awaiting repairs. “The ghost’s name is Griffin, Griffin G. Griffin, if you find him,” she said.

Estrella gestured distractedly over her shoulder, shooing her out, and Bicycle left her to work.

Jeremiah was sitting in his bakery van, grumbling to himself. “Call my fried pies poison? She’s poison, and that’s the honest truth there.” He saw Bicycle and asked with concern, “Can she help at all? Hate to think we came down here to get yelled at by that old turkey and she can’t help you.”

Bicycle said, “There’s a chance. She said if anyone could help fix Clunk and wake up Griffin, it’d be her.” She climbed in the van. “But we won’t know much more until dinnertime. I’ll have to wait until then to find out what she can do.”

Jeremiah grunted. “Best thing to do when you’re stuck waitin’ for news is to keep busy.” He started up the van and they pulled away. “Pie shop’s closed on Tuesdays, but there’s always somethin’ needs doin’ there. Say, you can help me taste test some new pies I’m workin’ on.”

Without thinking, Bicycle said, “Estrella said not to eat any more of your fried pies or they’ll make me daft.”

Jeremiah spluttered, “Daft? I’ll tell you what’s daft: a woman who won’t eat a single fried pie because of some family feud, that’s what. Pies, fried or not, are the best thing for you in the world—they’re the secret to a long life. I’m ninety-two years old, myself. I’ve eaten nothin’ but fried pies for the last ten of them years, and I ain’t got no complaints. It’ll serve her right if she dies from a lack of pies.” They drove back through town and parked in front of the pie shop. “You come on in and try my double-crispy apricot fried pie and then you tell me which one of us is daft.”

“I’m sorry,” Bicycle said as she followed Jeremiah into the kitchen at the rear of the shop. “I think your fried pies are delicious. I’d love to try a double-crispy anything.” She thought she’d be too distracted to offer much assistance with taste testing, but she’d give it her best shot.

Jeremiah explained that he was designing some new fried-pie flavors and was having trouble coming up with combinations. “Apple, peach, blueberry, cherry, strawberry-rhubarb, raspberry, bumbleberry, turkey, chicken, pumpkin, peanut butter and sorghum, chocolate cream surprise, bacon and egg: we do those flavors better than anybody. But the only way we’re gonna get world-famous is if we come up with some new fried pies no one’s ever thought up before.”

He walked over to a spread of fried pies he’d made the day before. “Now, over here I’ve got some turtle pie.”

Bicycle wrinkled her nose.

“It’s not what you think. It’s full of caramel and pecans. Then over here we’ve got sweet potato, but that’s not what you think either—it’s got turtles in it.” He spluttered a hearty laugh at her expression. “Naw, just kidding—it’s sweet potatoes, I promise. Hey, how about a cutie pie?”

“What’s a cutie pie?” Bicycle said.

“You are!” He laughed even harder.

Bicycle managed her first smile since she’d seen the Parade of Pigs coming her way.

“That’s an old pie-seller’s joke. My momma always used to use that one on me. Okay, down to business. Try this,” he said, handing her a lumpy pie pocket.

She bit into it, and spat it back out into her hand. “What was that?” she asked.

“Celery and banana. Not so good?”

“Not so good.”

Jeremiah sighed. “Let’s hit the cookbooks.”

The shop’s kitchen table was loaded with as many cookbooks and recipe notecards as Jeremiah’s home kitchen table. They pored over the recipes all afternoon, trying to mix the right combination of unusual and appetizing. They blended canned peaches with dried cherries, then toasted walnuts with ground beef, and agreed they were on to something interesting when they filled one pie with chopped blueberry muffin tops and tapioca pudding. They were so intent on their work that Bicycle was surprised when she glanced at a clock on the wall and saw it was past six.

A flutter of hope started flittering inside her, accompanied by a good dose of nervousness. “Jeremiah, can you please give me a ride back to Estrella’s?”

Jeremiah grumbled, but agreeably. “Ayup, I’ll drive you, but I’m not gettin’ out of the van this time, even if she kicks a tire again.”