Hoping we wouldn’t run into Janice Lindberg again, I parked the Jeep near Diavan’s new business. Min came with me instead of going back for the lunch rush at her food truck. When I’d relayed the neighbor’s story and Diavan’s call, she’d been concerned.
“There are so many magical beings here,” Min whispered as we walked up to the old yellow house that had long ago been converted to a commercial property.
It didn’t have official signage yet—the last I’d heard, Zaqose and Diavan and Min were arguing over names—but a piece of paper in the window proclaimed it was the soft opening for Fremont’s newest and best source for YARD ART AND HEALING TINCTURES (that was in all caps and on the top) and coffee (that was scrawled in tiny writing at the bottom).
“It is somewhat alarming.” I’d sensed the
