"Okay, what else do we need?"

"Pop Tarts."

"Gummy bears."

"Dinosaur."

"I'm out of mealworms and powder stuff."

"My shampoo's on sale this week."

"Dinosaur!"

With nine people in the household, and seven of them under ten, making a grocery list requires a level of paperwork and logistics normally reserved for things like Senate proposals and space shuttle launches. I actually have a form made up for this purpose so I can just check off the basics--milk, bread, peanut butter, toilet paper, paper towels.

I check off 'mealworms' and 'calcium powder' for Ryan, then scribble a note about Madison's herbal shampoo under the Health & Beauty section. The rest are happy to use the puppy shampoo I get in bulk, but Madison's a teenager, and I can still remember the self-consciousness of those years well enough to sympathize.

"No Pop Tarts or gummy bears, sorry."

"Dinosaur," Hunter says for the third time. I glance at the toddler raccoon in his overalls, then raise an eyebrow quizzically at Madison.

"It's a toy he saw on TV. I think."

"Oh. Okay, well, no dinosaur either, Hunter, sorry. Anything else?"

"Lemons." The soft voice is Hannah, from where she sits putting a puzzle together with Sierra. "And sugar."

"Yeah, lots," Sierra chimes in. "And some cups."

"And what are you two up to?" I'm pretty sure I know already, but with this bunch I've learned it's better to be sure.

"We're gonna have a lemonade stand on Saturday," Sierra replies.

Madison rolls her eyes. "They got the idea out of those old books you brought up. Next they'll probably want to churn their own butter or go hunt pterodactyls or something."

"Hey, the books weren't that old." I'd given the girls a box of paperbacks I'd kept from when I was their age, mostly Beverly Cleary and some Baby-Sitters Club, plus a few of the tamer Judy Blumes. "Where's the lemonade stand going to be?"

Sierra and Hannah look at me as if I've just asked what color the sky is. "Outside," Sierra says finally. "In front of the house. I guess under the tree where it's shady, close to the sidewalk."

Outside. I know I wince when she says it; I can see it in their eyes.

"We'll be right in front of the house," Sierra repeats hopefully. "You can watch from the window."

It's been a quiet neighborhood so far. There are other kids down the street, though we don't see them much. We've never had any trouble here. And I'm trying to give them a home, not a prison.

I push aside a thousand what-ifs and go back to the grocery list. "Okay, lemons, sugar, cups... Do we have enough napkins?"

"Dinosaur."

"Maybe next time, Hunter."

Hannah spends all Friday afternoon making the signs--one for the table, another with a big arrow on it to put at the corner. At their insistence, I write down how much the lemons, sugar, and cups cost so they can see if they're making a profit. Madison bakes chocolate chip cookies and wraps each one in plastic wrap. "Call it a donation," she says with a shrug.

I help them set up the folding table the next day, but as soon as I carry everything out and give them a jar with a handful of change, they shoo me back inside. "It's okay," Sierra says. "We got it." Hannah nods too and goes back to stacking cups.

I head inside to watch. They're so eager, so hopeful, it warms my heart and breaks it at the same time. I remember lemonade stands, and yard sales, and lazy summers that stretched out before me like taffy, sticky and sweet. I remember neighbors happy to pay a quarter for over-sweetened cherry Kool-Aid on a late June afternoon. I want that for the girls, all that and more. So I sit, and I watch, and I hope those days aren't gone for good.

After a while, Madison looks up from her magazine. "How long have they been out there?"

"Half an hour."

"Anything?"

"No."

Madison sighs and snaps open the coin purse on her wallet. "Okay. Be right back."

A moment later she comes back with a cup, pours it down the sink, and goes back out carrying the bag of sugar.

Another half hour passes. "Don't look at me," Madison says. "I don't even like the stuff when it has enough sugar."

I sigh. Outside, the girls look hot and bored. A boy goes by on a bicycle but doesn't look at them. A car pulls up to a house down the street, and a woman gets out, goes inside, and shuts the door. Cicadas buzz in the trees.

Madison gazes out the window, her magazine forgotten in her lap. "They'll never know," she says softly.

"Never know what?"

"Why people aren't buying it. Is it just that nobody wants lemonade, and it wouldn't matter if they were still normal kids? Or is it because of the fur and the tails?"

I think about promotions I didn't get from male bosses, first dates who never called again, the looks I get now in the grocery store. "Yeah, but you can drive yourself crazy second-guessing everyone all the time. Maybe we just have to assume they're not thirsty, until they prove something different."

Madison shrugs and goes back to her magazine.

Across the street and a few houses down, a screen door slams. Two brown-haired boys run outside, chasing each other with water guns. The older one looks about seven; the younger, around five. Their shirts are streaked with water by the time they see the lemonade stand and come over to investigate. I lean closer to the open window, not caring that I'm air-conditioning the whole street.

The older one points his water gun at the girls. "We're robbers. Give us all your money."

His little brother takes up the same stance. "Yeah, alla money."

"No," Sierra says.

"Then give us the lemonade."

"Anna cookie."

"Yeah, and two cookies."

Sierra crosses her arms. "No way. The lemonade's a quarter and the cookies are fifty cents."

I'm grinning as I listen. I hope Sierra never works as a bank teller when she grows up.

"We'll shoot," the older one warns.

Sierra glares at him. "You wouldn't dare."

"Besides," Hannah speaks up, "those are empty."

That's my Hannah. She's so quiet it's easy to forget she's there, until she finally speaks up and you realize she's been sitting there the whole time, taking everything in.

"We don't have any money." The older boy turns the pocket of his shorts inside out. "I got an eraser shaped like a race car. And a basketball sticker..."

"Boy stuff," Sierra says.

"So? We're boys."

The younger one waves something and puts it on the table. I can't see what it is--some kind of toy, probably--but the girls whisper for a moment, then pass over two cups and a cookie. The older boy carefully breaks the cookie in half, taking the slightly larger half for himself, and they head back to their house with their water guns making wet spots in their pockets.

The afternoon drags on. The mail carrier says "Not today, kids," but at least she smiles when she says it. A teenage girl walking a Yorkie hurries past without making eye contact. An elderly man wearing a US Army baseball cap slows and stops. After a moment, he pulls out his wallet, hands them a dollar, and leaves with his cup and without his change. I pray that he will live to be a hundred and fifty, enjoy every day of his life in perfect health, die peacefully in his sleep surrounded by great-great-great grandchildren, and immediately be made a saint.

By four o'clock, the ice has melted, the girls have eaten two cookies apiece, and I help them carry everything back inside. "So, did you have fun?"

"Yep," Sierra says. "But we want to do brownies next time."

Next time... I dump the water out of the cooler and write 'brownie mix' on next week's list. As I finish, Hunter tugs at the hem of my capri pants. "What is it, sweetie?"

"Need a dollar."

"A dollar? What for?"

"Secret." He whispers the word.

Sometimes you just have to play along. I hand him the money, and he scampers off into the playroom.

Afternoon deepens into a blue summer twilight. The cubs chase fireflies in the backyard while I sit sipping leftover lemonade. There's no fence, so I keep counting heads obsessively, but I try to relax.

The dangers we risk here are real, but so are the joys. I welcomed them into this house to live and to be loved, and keeping them safe is part of that, but not all of it. And I realize now, if I shut them away, they'll never taste the sour or the sweet.

I take another sip and find myself smiling. Beside me, his little body warm and heavy against mine, Hunter has fallen asleep clutching his new toy dinosaur.

Sometimes the bargain is worth the risk.

This work and all characters (c) 2011 Renee Carter Hall ("Poetigress"). May not be reprinted, reposted, or otherwise redistributed without permission.