Page 75 of Almost Ravaged

While the three of us studied at the ice arena, I found myself struggling to organize the ideas I plan to present to Mercer at our check-in tomorrow morning. I’m brimming with strategies and tactics. Several of them are doable, but I have no idea how to narrow them down or where to focus.

I talked through some of the ideas with Cam and Kai, explaining the project in detail. But without visuals, Cam, who’s never been here, struggled to picture any of it. Kai, apparently, came here all the time when they were younger. I would have pulled up pictures online, but the orchard’s internet presence is nonexistent, its website basic and outdated.

That will change soon, I hope.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, we were piling into my car and heading off campus so I could show them Evercrisp Orchard.

“This place is beautiful,” Cam says. “How have I never been here before?”

It’s a valid question. The orchard is two miles from Holt University.

“My mom brought us here with all our cousins every fall,” Kai says as we make a beeline for the storefront. “Oh my god. Look.” They point to the gap between the storefront and the barn. “We took pictures with this tree every year.”

They tear off toward the wooden apple tree cutout, complete with a measuring stick and a cute little sign that readsGrowing Memories at Evercrisp Orchard since 1908.

“Do you want me to take your picture?” I tease.

“Actually, yeah,” they chirp. “I’ll send it to the family group chat.”

Kai strikes a pose and I snap a few shots. They take a few selfies, too, and once I’ve texted them the photos from my phone, we stash our devices.

“Why’d your family stop coming here?” I ask.

The sun is low in the sky, mostly covered by clouds, as we meander toward the barn.

Inside, there’s a storage shed with a padlock in one corner and a second-level loft that looks equal parts cool and creepy. There are far fewer pumpkins and gourds than there were the last time I was here, but according to Noah, they’ll receive fresh shipments every week through October.

“I don’t know.” Kai turns in a slow circle, their head tipped back. “Maybe we grew out of it. They used to have a corn maze. And hayrides. In elementary school, this was the best field trip spot.”

Cam crouches low and arranges a few smaller pumpkins in a cluster. “Honestly,” she says, taking a picture, “this place is a social media fall aesthetic wet dream.”

She’s not wrong.

With my hands on my hips, I inspect the barn. It really is brimming with potential.

“Come on. You haven’t even seen some of the best parts.” I step outside and lead them toward the storefront.

I run through the mini tour I plan to give to the class next week, pointing out the orchard and the apiary. When we venture in through the bakery side of the store, scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove cast a fall-scented spell over us.

“Let’s have pie,” I say as I march up to the counter where Edna stands, waiting.

Cam practically gasps. “There’s pie?”

“Of course there’s pie,” the older woman says. “Made from scratch and baked fresh daily.” She scowls, the wrinkles in her forehead and around her eyes deepening. “Is there pie,” she mocks as she pulls out a knife and server. “We’ve got seven kinds today. Seven.”

“That’s an impressive amount of pie,” Kai commends.

“Pie’s on me.” Leaning against the glass, I take in the offerings on the other side. Each pie sits in a vintage tin, lending even more authenticity to the atmosphere.

It’s late afternoon, yet only two pies are missing a slice. It’s a shame the orchard isn’t busier during the week.

“I’ll take a piece of Dutch apple,” Cam orders.

Kai weighs their options, eventually settling on peach.

I opt for a slice of honey-poached pear.

Edna insists we set up on the wraparound porch, yet another idyllic facet to this place, and Cam and Kai take pictures of their food before we dig in.