Zeke had just opened and was wiping down the counter when the doorbell tinkled and he looked up, then down into the face of a dried apple doll, with wild Janis Joplin hair that flowed around her head like an aura. She wore a lavishly embroidered peasant blouse and multicolored long skirt. She couldn’t be an inch over four feet tall, Zeke estimated. She peered at him intently through dark round glasses, which only added to the Janis image.

“What can I get you?”

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