Applejack and Scootaloo had known each other for years, but never talked—not even once, though they had been companions on many adventures. There was always a pony nearby to carry on the discourse of the large group of which they were invariably part; besides this, Scootaloo overestimated the difficulty of dispatching cider shipments, and mistook Applejack to be a pony of a speculative and moreover physicalist bent, who would have no interest in spy novels, or wandering the streets, or dreaming up acrobatic routines.

One day, not long after her young sister had gone to join the infantry, Applejack felt a sense of absence as she gazed around the orchard grounds, as though a cold wind had passed through the pores of her hide. She reflected that it was altogether strange how she and Scootaloo had avoided one another for such a long time, and went that same day to pay her a visit at the fruit stand where she worked. After pleasantries, Applejack asked her what to do; and Scootaloo, feeling out of depth, suggested that they set aside a morning to go fishing together, the criterion of which was that neither she nor Applejack had any experience fishing whatsoever, and would be at an equal social advantage. They soon made a habit of rising before the birds sang, every other week, and began to relish the clank of the tacklebox and that of one another—their silly talks about strawberries and the stallion at the rug-maker’s kiosk, with few fish for the effort.

They were traipsing one morning, on return from such an excursion, when they were overtaken by a pony in a seersucker jacket driving a wagon at the back handles. He arrived in a storm of dust, skidding to a stop, though not much worse for the exertion.

“Mornin’, ladies!” he said, nearly tumbling over. “Where you off to? Saddleburg? Clydesdale? Girthtown? If I were a bettin’ horse, I’d say you’re one of those land mariners I’ve heard so much about, scuttling dry parts like these looking for grubs and mealworms. I myself am on my way from Jockey Springs, yes sir, and I tell you, I’ve got it in me to make it all the way to Raceland.”

“Ponyville,” Applejack replied, at last. “And I ain’t heard of none of those places.”

“Never heard of Raceland? Why, it’s as real as Timbucktu or Neighniveh, and pungent as Haylon after a hot summer day. Pungent, I say. Isn’t that right, Flim?”

A square casing at the opposite end of the wagon flapped open, and Flim stuck his neck out. “Pungent as a lazy slip on the Rue Equine, monsieur.”

“Hey, now, Flim, it sounds like you’ve enjoyed a few slips of your own!” cried the first stallion, flashing Applejack and Scootaloo a cajoling grin.

“It’s about time we gave you the slip,” answered the former with a grousing huff. “Good luck gettin’ to Candyland, or wherever you’re going.”

“Aw, come on, Applejack,” said Scootaloo. She gave her an elbow, and teased, “Where have you got to be?”

Applejack huffed again. “Look at you! What’s gotten into you that you want to be friends with Flim and Flam, now?”

“Aw, they seem harmless,” Scootaloo replied.

“No, they ain’t. And whatever they’ve got in that there wagon isn’t going to improve your life. For all I know another crooked pony is going to pop out of it, somewhere, and try to sell you a bedspring that will clear the rats out of the cellar, or a hat that tells you where to find water underground. I bet you thought they kept organ pipes in that caboose.”

“Rest assured, Ma’am, we mean no harm.” Flim pulled himself out of the casement, and said to his brother, “why don’t you tell her about the Touch, Flam.”

“The Touch? Why, I thought you were the expert, Flim.”

“So I am. Listen, then. You’ve heard of Toccata and Fugue, haven’t you? Well, with the Touch, you can learn the organ in a day. Or, you can run a barrel from Jockey Springs to Raceland, and back to Ponchamoola, just in time for the pasture festival, if it suits you. That’s right, it’s the full touch and go. And we’d like to offer you the unique opportunity to impress your friends before this terrific product even hits the market.”

“We’re on our way this very moment,” said Flam, “to deliver to some competitive buyers. Wouldn’t you like to get in on the action, Miss Applejack?”

“Yeah AJ,” said Scootaloo, “how would you like to get in on the action with a little Touch?” She staggered over like a drunk, laughing, and poked AJ in the foreleg twice. “Ooh, just imagine how easy it will be to visit—” she nearly choked—”Jockey Springs!”

She hid her face on Applejack’s shoulder and heaved with delight. Both Applejack and the sales ponies watched her with astonishment, and none spoke as her wheezing, tearful laughter rang the woods. It was a minute before the fit passed through her, and she gave a long, satisfied sigh.

“I’m not sure what you find so funny, miss,” said Flim, in a quiet voice.

Scootaloo convulsed another laugh, and said, “Please tell me you haven’t been running the dirt roads, asking mares if they want the Touch.”

Applejack cracked a smile. “Goodness Scootaloo, don’t talk like that.”

Flam blushed, and let out a single laugh of his own. “I suppose young ponies will hear what they want to hear. Well, don’t let them razzle you,” he said in a low voice. “Give it to them, old boy. Give them the pitch.”

Flim took a breath, and resumed unsteadily, “Anyhow, Miss Applejack, if you will let us, Flam and I would like to give you the Touch—”

“Now that was on purpose!” snapped Applejack. “You watch yourself, or you’re gonna be whistlin’ your jingles through some missing teeth, understand me? Now we’re really going.” She gave her companion a tug, and the latter followed with a quick step, smiling with cheeks the sheened in the sun.

“Just be careful not to get arrested, guys,” she called out, before turning a corner behind Applejack, and back toward town.

---

The morning with Flim and Flam became Scootaloo’s favorite subject to share with her friends that afternoon in the market plaza. Her fresh memory of the bombastic sales ponies made her cheerful each time she recounted it, and carried her through a busy day in Ponyville Square. But with Applejack the encounter had hardly made an impression; she went about her business, just as normal, and even had time for cards in the lading yard when a jam shipment was delayed. Then she went to Ponyville after the stock ponies’ shifts had ended, to avoid feeling lonesome again. She wound up at her favorite cider bar, the Adam’s Apple, where a tide of hunched shoulders made the room into a sea.

She went to the bar and ordered a drink, and glanced down the row of ponies carousing, or otherwise hiding from one another. Each was over their glass.
Near the end of the counter she spotted Flim. He was stooped over, nearly sunk in his seat. He looked like a giraffe with his forelegs folded and head hung. His hat and his cider were in front of him, untouched, ordered only as a form of penance. His eyes stayed closed as a rowdy neighbor bumped and swayed into his body as he called out songs to the tables and talked loudly about the government in Canterlot.

Seeing him, the scene by the dirt road rushed back to Applejack, and something made her feel taut; she took her mug and hurried down the room.

“You know,” she began, perching by his side, “you have every right to be unhappy with yourself. Goin’ round, shoppin’ out of ponies’ pockets. That’s the problem with the world, you know. It’s not just about takin’ money. It’s about convincin’ folks to put their hopes in junk. They go home with their cannister of ‘the Touch’ supposin’ that someone’s lookin’ out for ‘em, that the whole time the answer to gettin’ up early every morning and goin’ in circles and their daddy dyin’ is that little box that you give ‘em. Hmph. You know, at least when we distribute cider we make sure it’s a quality product. It’s made here in Ponyville and it tastes good.”

She took a swig, and allowed him a chance for reply. He remained as quiet as before.

“Nothin’ to say, huh? Figures.”

She took a seat next to him, and they were quiet together. The raucous neighbor had got into a dispute with a pony who worked for the post, and moved to a different part of the room. Applejack swilled her drink, and said, “All this fuss over a teenager.”

“I’ve got two of my own, at home,” said Flim.

“That so?” said Applejack.

“Biff Bearings and Happy Camper,” he replied. “And they hate my guts. Even worse than that. I’m a joke to them. A father shouldn’t be a joke to his sons.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” Applejack said firmly. “Ain’t none of us perfect. It’s a hard thing being a parent, I reckon.”

“You got kids of your own?” asked Flim.

“No sir,” she answered. “I said I reckon.” She threw back another gulp and turned to face the barista. “One more, please.”

“You’re a good mare, Applejack,” said Flim. “And you said it yourself. I have a right to be unhappy. The truth is, I’m afraid to be home. My sons are too smart. They see that my life is spent caring about frivolous things, and that after a while you yourself become a frivolous thing. I’m afraid I’m going to go home and yell and try to defend myself, for what I do to this family and what I do to myself. It disgusts me, and I know I’ll do it. I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs this morning, but that would be the end for me, the shouting. You understand me, right?”

“Well gosh, Flim. Here. Take your glass.” She picked it up from the countertop and handed it to him. “Now raise it up with me. To good times!”

“Sometimes,” he said, letting it lower, “I think it would be better if I got sick. Something real quick and easy. You can’t get mad at a guy for getting sick, right?”

Flim collapsed onto the bar and folded his hooves over his head. Applejack rushed over and began to shake him by the shoulders, saying, “Flim! Flim! Now you listen to me. You are an important pony. Sit up now, and look me in the face.” She got him up, and took him by the hooves. “Those boys need you. Don’t be givin’ up on them just because you’re goin’ through a rough patch.”

“And what about my work?” asked Flim. “Which is the biggest problem in the world?”

“You’ve got a calling,” she replied, tugging at him, “and it’s your job to see to it that it gets done right. Look at all these ponies in need. It’s like judging a pie eating contest. Now, the most important thing to remember is that you can’t be too nice with the contestants. Listen. I’m talkin’ about your attitude, you can shake hooves and all of that. But these folks aren’t your friends. Got it? They’re here to eat pies, and it’s on you to watch ‘em, to be heaven’s eyes, as my Granny used to say. You can bet she’s payin’ attention, too,” she added, patting him on the elbow.

“But why does heaven need my eyes?” said Flim, elaborating somewhat foolishly, “This pie eating contest, I mean. I think that an angel could judge it far better than I would.”

“The angels are busy,” replied Applejack, “with more urgent things. That’s where you and I come in.”

She smiled and let go. Flim folded over, into a cough, and breathed deeply as the loud patrons left the bar. After a while, he pulled himself back up, and took his hat.

“You’re a good mare, Applejack,” he said again. “Thanks for talking some sense into me. I’m sure, if you ever decide, that you will be a great parent.”

She thanked him, and went back to her drink.

---

“Scootaloo! We’ve got to go get the Touch.”

She snorted. “Oh geez, not this again.”

“No, really.” Applejack pulled her to the side of the fruit stand and spoke in a whisper. “I saw Flim at Adam’s Apple last night. Your joshing reminded him of his kids. I’m worried he might have an unstable life at home.”

“Wait, what?” said Scootaloo, catching a nearby set of eyes.

“Hush now. This is a highly personal matter!”

“So he doesn’t have a good relationship with his kids, now?” she resumed more quietly. “And how is getting ‘the Touch’ going to help with that?”

“By giving him the assurance that he doesn’t need to make a bad decision. You know what I mean by that, right?”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “I’m so over this. If you want to go get touched, I can’t stop you.”

“I’m worried about the boys!” she thundered, catching another pair of eyes. “And you need to be there, too.”

“But how do we know he even has boys? You know what,” she said, going back to sorting cantaloupes, “even if he does, it just makes me upset that he would be around in the first place to help support them. Take some responsibility for your life, dude.” She went about repositioning the melons as a silence fell.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” said Applejack. “Now I won’t say nothin’ more on the matter. It would mean a lot to me if you come with me to meet them this afternoon.”

“Fine,” said Scootaloo. “I’ll go and get the Touch, for you. But don’t expect any apologies from me.”

---

“Glad you could make it today, ladies!” said Flam. “By golly, what a deal we’ve got for you today.”

“We’ve heard it’s a good one,” said Applejack, giving Scootaloo an elbow. She teased, “We just couldn’t stop thinking about it, after we heard the rumors about town.”

“Always looking to stay ahead of the trend! That’s what we like about you, Miss Applejack. Ahead of the trend, I tell you, isn’t that right Flim?”

“Like a magpie on the tinseled streets of Belamoose,” was Flim’s rejoinder.

“Well what would you like today, ladies?” asked Flam.

Applejack took out a pouch and asked, “What can we get for thirty bits?”

Flam scratched his chin. “Well, brother, you’re the expert. What can they get?”

“Sounds to me like a deluxe! Come here, Flam, and help me get it out.”

Flim and Flam opened a hatch in the wagon and spent several moments shuffling its contents and giving each other quiet directions. At last, Flam emerged with the object concealed in his hoof. “Now, which of you ladies would like to hold it first?”

Applejack and Scootaloo made a short eye contact. “I think she should go first, said Scootaloo. “That way, I’ll get to experience the Touch twice.”

“Very well, then. Cup your hooves for me, Miss Applejack.”

She held them out. Flam leaned over and shook his empty hooves over hers.

“And there you go!” he said. “You see, now, that you’ve had the Touch all along.”

“It’s perfect!” said Applejack. “Absolutely perfect. I couldn’t have asked for something better.”

“Sounds like a winner, Flim!” said Flam.

“Most satisfying part of the job, Flam,” answered Flim.

“Now if you don’t mind us, ladies, we must be off. Places in need, you know. Martingale is burning for the stuff.”
Flim took his place in the cart, and waved from the caboose. “See you again, friends, next time! Remember, the wagon doors of the Brothers Flim are always open!”
“Hey, that’s Brothers Flam, to you!” said the other, as the two disappeared into the dust.

Applejack waved them goodbye as the sun began to set in gold and purple jets by the lake. She took off her hat, letting the breeze mingle in her hair, and lingered a moment as the march of the katydids hummed in the ever-distance.

Scootaloo scratched her noggin. “Wait a sec. Did you just pay thirty bits for a hoof-ful of air?”