Every screen, and why it looks like that.

Find what is out, before you turn the key.

The feed answers the three questions that decide whether you go: is it open, is it stocked, and is it worth the distance.

• Real distance, real GPS. Proximity is worked out in the database against your actual position, not guessed from a town name.
• The closing hour, in the stand's timezone. Not yours. A stand in another state should not read "open till 6" because your phone says so.
• How long since the count changed. "Restocked 20m ago" is a different proposition from a page nobody has touched since August.
• An accuracy score on every stand, built from people who drove out.

The four facts nobody else prints.

Every local Facebook group asks the same questions about a stand, and no listing answers them. So the profile does.

• Is there somewhere to pull off? With a truck, with kids in the back.
• How do you pay? Cash box, exact change, in the app, or a handle for Venmo, Cash App, PayPal or Zelle.
• Is the cooler self-serve? And is the stand covered when it rains.
• Kids and dogs? A yes or no, rather than finding out on arrival.

Sold out is not a dead end.

The honey went this morning. On most listings that is where it ends. Here it converts into a reservation with a date, so a stockout earns a message instead of a bounce.

• Put your name on the next batch. The owner sets when it will be ready.
• A six-digit pickup code is minted when they mark it ready, and lands in your inbox.
• Collecting it decrements the stock, so the count stays right for the next person without anyone doing arithmetic.

The screen the whole thing depends on.

After you leave, not while an owner watches you fumble with a code. One tap per item, and two answers most apps would never ask for.

• "It was gone." The awkward one. It is what makes an accuracy score mean anything.
• "Just looked, didn't buy." Also counted, and also useful.
• A private note to the owner. No rating, no audience, no verdict — and only possible because the phone knows you actually stood there.

Reporting something as gone does not zero the owner's stock. One person may have looked in the wrong cooler, and letting a stranger empty a listing is a vandalism tool. The owner is told; the owner decides.

One switch, and numbers you change with a thumb.

If a farmer only ever touches one control it is the open switch, so it gets the top of the screen and no confirmation dialog. Everything else is secondary to it.

• Steppers sized for gloves. Every control clears 44 pixels.
• No save button anywhere. Tap, and it is live. Accuracy only stays true if updating costs seconds.
• Two numbers that turn a chore into a reason: how many people are looking right now, and how many have that item saved.
• Photos from your phone, for the stand and for each thing on the table.

The traffic number no roadside stand has ever had.

A code taped to the box catches the keen buyers who already paid. The phone catches everyone who stopped — including the two nobody has ever been able to count.

• Who pulled in and bought nothing. Not an accusation. A signal.
• Who came while you were closed, and the earliest hour it happened. That changes what time the eggs go out.
• An accuracy streak you can wear: days your count has matched what people found.
• Notes from people the system knows actually stood at your table.

Counts, never names. There is no screen, export or request that will give an owner a list of visitors — that rule is written into the database, not into a policy someone could quietly change.