A thrift barn on a gravel road in Vermont, run by two sisters who price everything by how much they like you.

There is no website. There is a hand-painted sign, a gravel turnout, and a barn with the doors propped open by two cinder blocks.

Inside: dishes by the crate, a wall of framed landscapes, and a rocking chair on the porch that is not for sale, because one of the sisters sits in it.

The pricing system is entirely improvised. A stack of quilts went for six dollars because “they’ve been here all summer.” A perfectly good end table cost more, apparently on principle.

I stayed longer than I planned. That happens most days out here, and it is the whole point of taking the long way around.

Sometimes the long way around is the point.