"We have Bings," they’d say. "Big, sweet, dark red Bings."
Marty chuckled and pointed a calloused finger toward the back corner. "I don't stock the fresh ones this late, but I keep the 'baking gold' in the glass jars. Grown in Traverse City. Packed in their own juice. No sugar added."
Elias walked to the shelf. There they were. Not the bloated, purple-black cherries of the supermarket, but bright, fire-engine red globes suspended in clear nectar.