Morning light spilled across the cozy house as Mom called from the kitchen. Elice raced from the bedroom, socks sliding over the wooden floor. “Yes, Mom?” she answered, skidding beside the table. Mom held out a little list, already folded for the market.
Mom unfolded the paper. “Milk, bread, apples, and flour,” she said, tapping each word. Elice caught the list before it fluttered away, tucked it into the canvas market bag, and swung the bag across her shoulder. The front door clicked open. The market bells jingled somewhere down the street.
The neighborhood market burst with sound. Bells chimed above striped awnings while vendors called over baskets of gleaming tomatoes, green cabbages, and golden pears. Elice gripped the grocery list and searched for milk first. Then—WHOOSH! A gust snatched the paper and sent it skittering beneath a fruit cart.
Elice dropped to her knees and crawled beneath the cart. Crates crowded close, smelling of apples and damp wood. Her fingers found the paper beside a rolling plum. She pulled it free, but a bright red splash of jam streaked across the middle. “Oh, crumbs,” she whispered.
Elice pulled a cloth from her canvas bag and wiped carefully. The jam loosened in sticky red curls. Only two clues survived: “br—” and “ap—.” She studied the bread stall, then the apple basket. Her thought raced ahead: bread and apples had to be right.
Bread went into the bag, then apples. Elice found the milk beside a row of cheese wheels and carried everything toward the flour stall. A tall stack of paper sacks leaned beside the counter. She reached for the smallest sack. WHOOSH! The loose bag burst into a soft white cloud.
For one quiet second, the stall disappeared. Then Elice coughed, blinked, and laughed at the floury footprints marching across the floor. She tied a clean paper bag open with both hands. Scoop by scoop, she gathered the spilled flour, smoothing the top with the cloth.
The market bells jingled again as Elice started home. Milk, bread, apples, and the rescued flour filled her bag. Behind her, vendors waved from their bright stalls. She waved back, leaving tiny flour prints along the sun-warmed street.
