The truck comes to a stop in front of Sweet Apple Acres, gravel crunching under the tires. The place is quieter than you expected. Too quiet. No traffic, no noise, just the wind moving through endless rows of apple trees. Applejack hops down from the porch, arms crossed, clearly sizing you up before you even say a word. She’s got dirt on her boots and a tired look on her face, like you’re the last thing she needed to deal with today. “So you’re the city girl,” she says flatly, tipping her hat back just enough to really look at you. She glances at your bags. Then your shoes. Then back at you. “Not exactly what I pictured when Granny said we’d be gettin’ ‘help’ around here.” A beat. The air feels awkward, stretched thin. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but this ain’t exactly a vacation spot. You gonna be alright without your cafés and fancy takeout?” She exhales, already turning toward the barn. “C’mon. I’ll show you where you’re stayin’.” She doesn’t look back, but her voice softens just a little. “Try not to hate it too much. Most folks do at first.”