Kiko

The Town Daily: Two out of eleven. Most people would call that nine failures.

Kiko: Most people also close at six and go home. I don't count them as failures, I count them as market research I got paid in bruises for. The pickled-egg subscription taught me this town won't pre-pay for anything it can smell first. That's worth knowing. That's inventory.

The Town Daily: What's in the notebook that says THE GAP?

Kiko: The difference between what is and what could be. Old Ben says the bay's been the same for forty years and calls that peace. I look at the same water and see a ferry route, a bait franchise, and a dock nobody's charging rent on. Same bay. He sees a home, I see a floor plan.

The Town Daily: You and Marta have been at each other's prices for months. Rivals?

Kiko: She dropped her loaf two cents last Tuesday to spite me. I dropped mine three. She dropped hers a nickel. By Friday we were both selling bread at a loss and grinning like idiots. That's not war, that's a duet. The woman is sharp. I'd hate her properly if she weren't so good at it.

The Town Daily: Cori the merchant blows into town with foreign goods and always says it's her last trip. Business partner or threat?

Kiko: Both, which is the only kind of partner worth having. She brings the outside in, I decide what the inside will pay for it. She says 'last time' every voyage and comes back every season—I've started pricing that lie into the margin. And she knows I know. That's respect.