The Probability of Miracles by Wendy Wunder Page A

That was until she looked up and saw five beautiful semis piled with long, dead trees headed south toward the paper mill. So much for magic , she thought.
    Their mom rolled over the perfect sine wave of the Maine Turnpike. It was as if they were driving up and down along the humped back of a giant sea serpent.
    Perry bobbed her head back and forth as she mouthed the words to some tinkly Taylor Swift song. Their mom had gotten Perry a new phone when she got Cam one, just to be fair, which, if she hadn’t been so sick, would have really pissed Cam off. But that was the thing about dying. It made you shrug off the truly petty concerns in your life. Let Perry enjoy her Taylor Swift. Even if she had lost Tweety.
    â€œThis must be it,” Alicia called from the driver’s seat. It was still daylight, but a street lamp shone on a bulbous pink and orange Dunkin’ Donuts logo that sat right smack in the middle of the Exit 33 sign. Exit 33 had absolutely no other amenities, apparently. No gas. No lodging. No special attractions. Just a Dunkin’ Donuts.
    â€œI thought you said this was hard to find,” she said, glancing up the exit ramp. One winding path led straight to a white brick Dunkin’ Donuts at the top of the hill. The edifice itself was tiny, but it was lit up by the enormous three-story-high neon sign.
    â€œIt’s a miracle!” Perry exclaimed, and she reached again for the notebook.
    The Dunkin’ Donuts driveway was not even paved. Tiny rocks popped beneath Cumulus’s tires as they pulled in.
    â€œYou’re supposed to go through the drive-through,” Perry remembered.
    Alicia steered the car toward the rusted squawk box in the back. It seemed to have been dented by some teenage vandal’s baseball bat. The speaker scratched with a staticky crackle. They heard a woman’s tired voice ask, “Ayuh?”
    â€œUm,” Alicia started. “Three whoopie cakes,” she said.
    Cam exploded in laughter, and Perry squealed.
    â€œI think it’s whoopie pie ,” Cam corrected.
    â€œWhat difference does it make?” Alicia asked, beginning to giggle herself. They were all punchy from having been too long in the car. “Whoopie pies,” she said into the squawk box. “And three chocolate milks.”
    â€œWhoopie cake just sounds so wrong.” Cam laughed as they pulled around to the pay window.
    â€œWhoopie pie. Whoopie cake. It’s all just very wrong,” Alicia agreed.
    A large woman with greasy black hair tied back in a bun must have heard them laughing because she scowled at them as she took their money and handed them their whoopie pies, which were basically big flat Devil Dogs, and chocolate milks.
    â€œApologize, Mom. You made fun of their cuisine,” Perry whispered.
    â€œThank you,” Alicia said out the window. “We’re just very tired.”
    â€œAyuh,” said the lady.
    Before pulling out of the parking lot, they idled for a second. “When in Maine,” Alicia said before the three of them took simultaneous bites from their whoopie pies.
    â€œCheers,” giggled Perry. She held up her chocolate milk carton, and they clonked them together. A sudden breeze blew, rocking their little car and parting the underbrush to reveal a gravelly path.
    â€œThat must be it,” said Alicia. She maneuvered the car around the Dunkin’ Dumpster and plunged Cumulus in through the bushes. After about a quarter mile, the trees opened up to reveal the most beautiful (as even Cam had to admit) hidden cove of Penobscot Bay.
    The sheer authenticity of it blew Cam away. She had never been to a place that was not trying to be someplace else. It wasn’t pretending to be Maine. It wasn’t Maine-like or Maine-ish. It wasn’t McMaine, or MaineWorld, or MaineLand. There wasn’t even a giant lobster billboard welcoming them to town. It was just Maine.
    The gray wooden shanty buildings near the docks