She ran her hands across each item: the baby shoe that had belonged to the little boy she rocked to sleep every night for six months while his mom entertained a parade of boyfriends downstairs. The silver fork from the home where she never had enough to eat. A lint brush from the house that kept eight long-haired dogs, including one that had bitten her, leaving a wound on her calf so deep it required twelve stitches to close it.

And the newest addition—the small shell-covered box. It was the nicest thing she’d ever stolen. It was also the first time she’d ever felt a measure of guilt for her theft. Usually she stole from people who deserved it—people who had no idea how to care for a life placed in their hands and in their home—but the two women in the shop didn’t deserve what she’d done.

The first one she’d met, the one behind the counter, had been so nice. She talked to Maya—talked to her, not just about her—and the relief Maya felt had been immense. Maya had always been able to sense where things and people belonged, and while this woman, Violet, belonged in her shop, there was something about her that didn’t belong. Something she was carrying that was too heavy for her, a burden that wasn’t hers to shoulder.

Trudy, her artist sister, was quiet, and that quiet spoke of something forceful and unmanageable, though Maya couldn’t tell yet what that was. Regardless, she was drawn to the woman’s silence. So much in Maya’s life had been loud: babies and dogs, yelling and laughter, school counselors’ harsh words, and the yearnings for belonging that trailed from strangers’ fingertips and shoulder blades and the backs of their necks. Maya felt it all. Trudy’s silence felt like a respite, even though Maya suspected it might not feel that way for Trudy.

But she couldn’t keep the shell-covered box. As soon as she’d walked out the door with that familiar comfort in her pocket—the soothing weight of something that wasn’t hers—she knew she’d have to figure out a way to return it. And to do it in a way that wouldn’t spell her quick dismissal.

Because the truth was, she hadn’t stopped thinking about the strange pictures that had rushed through her mind when she saw that flyer on the gas station door. The images were jumbled and confusing and out of place, but they felt strangely like a key slipping into a lock or a hand fitting perfectly alongside another.

* * *

Tyler Holt knew what that look meant. Cassie stood in the middle of aisle three, half hidden behind a spinning rack of seeds so Tyler’s dad couldn’t see her, and slowly hooked the tool belt around her hips. Her shirt was cropped and the taut, tanned skin of her stomach gleamed above that leather belt. She gave Tyler her best you know you want this glance.

But instead of getting up off his stool and walking toward her, like she’d expected and clearly wanted, he swiveled and opened up the ancient Dell laptop sitting on the counter. He leaned in and ran his finger down the screen as if he was studying something more important than the background photo of his family’s store, Holt Feed and Seed.